


Without Virtue

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 74,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6983374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When virtue has slept it arises invigorated." - Nietzsche A dark tale of violence, lust, and vengeance in a city without justice. AU *Officially Abandoned*</p><p>*moved from ff.net. Originally posted April 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Virtue

Title: **Without Virtue**  
Category: Anime/Manga » Gundam Wing/AC  
Author: Clara Barton  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: M  
Genre: Drama/Angst  
Published: 04-04-12, Updated: 03-02-16  
Chapters: 12, Words: 76,025

* * *

**Chapter 1: Chapter 1**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The Watchmen but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like Batman and The Watchmen. And there's a fair influence from The Departed in here as well, especially regarding Sally Po.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

A/N#3: This first chapter opens on some extremely disturbing content… you can skip down to the section break and be okay, although you will miss some character development. Also, it ends on a lemon… so… graphic violence to start with, sex to end with…

**Without Virtue**

Chapter One

The man could take a hit, Zechs had to give him that.

He watched as the man's head rocked backwards under the punch, the force of the blow actually knocking his chair back a few feet. But instead of crying out in pain, instead of spilling his secrets – the man just looked up and grinned, his mouth a mess of blood.

"That all you got, Mueller?" The man asked, directing his question to the lackey who had been tasked with doling out the beating.

Mueller sneered and with a hiss of rage lashed out again, delivering a succession of quick, fierce blows to the man's face and chest before ending with a kick to his gut that sent the man and the chair he was taped to sprawling over on his side.

"Better, but still not impressed," the man spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth in Zechs' direction.

Zechs stepped back from it and arched an eyebrow towards Chilias Catalonia.

The older man met his eyes and gave a brief shake of his head, indicating that he, too, doubted that the man being tortured would crack.

Catalonia sighed and stepped forward to jerk the chair upright before sitting down in the chair opposite.

"Officer Ford, I'll ask you one last time: whose payroll are you on?" Catalonia's irritation colored his voice only slightly, but it was obvious that he was at the end of his patience.

Zechs couldn't blame him. They had been here for two hours already. Mueller had first tried waterboarding, but when that hadn't worked he had moved on to the more violent and bloody approach of beating the information out of Ford. Only that wasn't working either.

Ford's pale blue eyes narrowed, but he met Catalonia's gaze with a defiance that Zechs had to admire him for.

"I'm on the payroll of the city of Sanc," Ford said between gritted teeth.

Catalonia rolled his eyes and then casually drew a knife from his boot and, without any warning, plunged it into Ford's left leg just above his knee.

A hoarse shout of pain passed Ford's lips before he clamped down on them.

Zechs watched as the man's chest rose and fell in a heavy, erratic pattern as he tried to gain control of himself.

"Who _else_ is paying you?" Catalonia asked, his tone bored as he idly twisted the knife in the wound. "Because you clearly don't take orders from _me_ , the Chief of Police."

Ford took in several deep breaths and actually had to close his eyes before he could speak again.

"I don't take orders from OZ," Ford allowed. "My job is to protect the innocent people of this city and see that they get justice. My job is _not_ to let gangbangers, pimps, dealers, and rapists do whatever they want just because they swear allegiance to your filthy –"

Before Ford could finish his tirade, Catalonia jerked the knife downwards, cutting into Ford's kneecap and forcing him to shriek in pain.

"Everyone has a price," Catalonia said over Ford's whimpers of pain, "even you, you self righteous prick. So _who_ has been paying you to hassle our people?"

"The city of Sanc –" Mueller took his booted foot and stomped down on the knife in Ford's knee.

"This is getting us nowhere," Zechs said to Catalonia while they watched Ford scream and writhe in pain. "He isn't going to tell us anything."

"But he _knows_ something," Catalonia sneered. "I'll be damned if I let him get away with thwarting our plans and keeping intelligence from me."

"Sir?" Mueller asked, interrupting their conversation.

Zechs was mildly disturbed to see the red flush on Mueller's face. The boy was clearly enjoying his handiwork.

Catalonia waved a negligent hand.

"Do his other knee."

"I'm not going to tell you _anything_ ," Ford cried out as Mueller removed the knife from his left knee. "You might as well kill me now."

Catalonia frowned.

"Well if you aren't going to tell me anything then I see no reason to put an end to your punishment so soon. Perhaps if you _did_ tell me what I want to know, then I would allow Mueller to kill you quickly. But if you continue to defy me…"

"I work for the city of Sanc!" Ford shouted as Mueller plunged the knife into his right leg.

"And who works with you, Officer Ford?" Catalonia asked. "Who are your partners? Because you certainly don't play on _my_ team."

Ford opened his eyes and glared at Catalonia, the pain and anger in his pale blue eyes making them mesmerizing. Zechs couldn't help but notice that his face, pale from blood loss, and the red that stained his lips, only seemed to emphasize the unusual color of his eyes and the white blonde of his hair.

"On my honor, I will never betray my badge," he started to recite the Oath of Honor.

Catalonia rolled his eyes and stood up from his chair, allowing Mueller more room to do his work.

"My integrity, my character, or the public trust," Ford continued.

Instead of going for his right knee, Mueller dragged the knife towards Ford's groin, cutting through his femoral artery in the process.

"I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions," Ford panted.

Mueller pulled the knife out and looked back to Catalonia. The Chief of Police nodded, and Mueller moved behind Ford and held the knife at his throat.

"I will always uphold the constitution, my commu –" Mueller sliced through his neck, and Ford gave a gurgle of pain.

Zechs watched as he struggled to breathe, but Mueller had cut deeply, severing not just the carotid and jugular, but his trachea as well.

The light faded from Ford's eyes and his body went limp.

 _My community and the agency I serve_ , Zechs silently finished the Oath of Honor for Ford.

Catalonia sighed in annoyance.

"Well, that was useless. Mueller, get rid of the body. Zechs, track down Ford's residence and go sweep it for anything useful. That fucking prick might not have told us anything, but I'm willing to bet there's something useful at his home."

Zechs nodded, but couldn't seem to move or take his eyes off of the dead body in the center of the room.

"Detective Merquise."

He shook himself and focused on Catalonia's hard brown stare.

"You come highly recommended by the DA, and your resume certainly indicates that you are a viable candidate for service to the Organization of the Zodiac, but I don't trust you yet. Despite whatever the DA thinks – you still have to prove yourself to _me_. Are we clear?"

In other words, if Zechs didn't manage to dig up something at Ford's apartment then he would suffer the same fate as his colleague – former colleague, he amended.

"Yes sir," Zechs said and went so far as to offer a salute, knowing that it bordered on insubordinate.

Catalonia's lip curled at the gesture, but he returned it.

Zechs turned on his heel and left the interrogation room.

He was immediately assaulted by a flood of bright lights as he entered the main corridor of the police station.

Zechs blinked against the harsh fluorescents and started to walk towards the HR file room. This late at night there were only a handful of officers on duty in the station. Most of the officers were out on the streets, patrolling, running interference, and protecting the investments of OZ. Investments that officers like Ford didn't agree with.

To Zechs' knowledge, Ford had been the last bastion of independence in the precinct. Every other cop and detective seemed to fall in line with Catalonia and OZ – even if they weren't members, the others followed orders and were, in Catalonia's words, team players.

Ford had been the unknown, the last vigilante on the force who seemed to think that he could hold onto his ideals and his life.

 _Now there's just me_ , Zechs thought bitterly as he sat down at the computer terminal in HR and typed in the passcodes that allowed him access to all personnel files.

Of course, Zechs wasn't like Ford. He wasn't a vigilante or an idealist. He was a survivor. For now, he would play by Catalonia's rules and he would join OZ. He would be a team player until the time was right.

It turned out that Ford lived in one of the worst parts of town. Zechs immediately recognized the address as being in the L2 quarter – the section of town that was controlled by street thugs and gun runners. A section of town that had always been hostile the law enforcement, OZ, and Romefeller.

Zechs was surprised Ford managed to make it to work alive everyday. Then again, if they needed any evidence to prove that Ford was against OZ and Romefeller – surely Ford's home address was a huge indicator.

With a sigh, Zechs printed out the address and went to the locker room to change into plain clothes. He wasn't stupid enough to go to L2 in his uniform, and in any case he had a meeting to get to in two hours.

On his way out of the station he ran into a female officer, her dark hair cropped short enough that he almost mistook her for a man.

"Detective Merquise," the woman blushed as she looked up at him.

Zechs frowned as he tried to place her. There was something familiar about her…

"Trainee Schebeker," he remembered. Of course – she was one of the new rookies, and her training officer had been Ford.

"I was wondering, have you seen Officer Ford? I saw him come in earlier and thought he might need a cup of coffee?" She held up two cups, one of which was now nearly empty, its contents all over her uniform.

Zechs grimaced.

"Officer Ford is in the middle of an interrogation. I doubt he will be available for the next few hours."

"Oh. Okay." She looked from him to the door down the hall, the entrance to the room that now held Ford's corpse.

Zechs sighed.

"He's working on a case involving an L2 prostitution ring," Zechs told her, thinking quickly. "Why don't you start pulling RAP sheets on anyone from that quarter?"

"Arrests and prosecutions for prostitution only?" Schebeker asked, her keen mind and eagerness to help taking over her momentary doubt.

"No, everything. On everyone arrested or convicted in the last six months." It would certainly keep her busy long enough for Mueller to dispose of the body and for Zechs to make his escape.

"I'm on it." She turned to go, but then hesitated and turned back around. "I, ah, I don't really drink coffee." She held the one full cup towards him.

Zechs swallowed hard as he accepted the cup of coffee intended for a dead man.

"Thank you, trainee." He took a sip of it, amazed that he didn't choke.

* * *

Zechs didn't frequent L2. His duties as a detective under the thumb of Catalonia kept him in L1 and the Core of the city, two quarters where Romefeller and OZ support were highest and where protecting the 'citizens' meant keeping their misdeeds from inspiring vigilantes like Ford from arresting them.

L2 was one of the most run down of all the city's quarters, and by far the most dangerous. Disease outbreaks were fairly common, the water and electrical grids often went on the fritz, and the quarter had a reputation for lynching cops. They had their own version of justice, with their own police force.

Romefeller and OZ left the quarter to their own devices for the most part, because the guns and ammo they made hardly ever made it out of that quarter into the others. The main export of L2 was prostitution and pornography. Both were low-end, serving the needs of lower and middle class citizens of the city, and as such didn't poach on the high-end clientele that L3 and the Barton Foundation serviced.

Zechs still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Ford – of all cops, _Ford_ with his never ending thirst for justice and equal protection under the law – lived in L2. The officer probably witnessed five felonies every time he opened his front door.

Breaking into Ford's apartment was a little trickier than Zechs had anticipated – three deadbolts, and a computerized entry code meant that Ford didn't like visitors dropping by unannounced. He finally had to resort to hacking into the code, putting his moderate computer skills to the test, and then relying on the force of his booted foot to force his way inside.

What he stepped into just continued to add to the mystery of the now dead police officer.

Unlike the weathered, graffiti covered exterior of the building and the mildew smelling hallway, the apartment Zechs had broken into was spotless. Bare wood floors that clearly weren't original to the building, leather furniture, remodeled kitchen, a fireplace with a lit fire –

That gave him pause until he remembered that Ford had been at home before Catalonia called him in, claiming that they had an informant who would only talk to Ford. Which, ironically, had been true – earlier in the day Mueller had picked up a junkie in the Core who claimed that he had intel for Officer Ford about some crooked cops.

It had confirmed Catalonia's suspicions that Ford was working against him, and he called Ford in to the station.

Zechs shook his head and was about to start his search when a voice called out.

"Solo, you fucking bastard, get in here right _now_ and fuck me or I'm not letting you near my ass for a month! You said you'd be gone for an hour, tops – and I've been waiting here, with this damn butt plug up my ass and my hands numb from your fucking knots for three _hours_!"

Zechs had felt pure, blind panic at the sound of the voice, but he forced himself to calm down even as he reached for his gun. The voice was definitely male, and definitely pissed off.

He swallowed hard and moved silently across the floor towards the slightly closed door and the source of the angry voice.

"Solo?" There was a measure of uncertainty mixed with the aggravation in the voice now. "This is why I hate your S & M bullshit, man. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to maintain an erection without being able to _touch_ myself? Get your ass in here and –"

The voice abruptly stopped speaking when Zechs opened the door and stepped inside.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Laying in the center of a king sized bed was a naked man, his wrists tied together above his head and, just as he had shouted, a large black leather plug was forced into his ass.

Zechs swallowed hard as he took in the sight of the man who was, besides being enraged, incredibly beautiful. A long braid of hair trailed over his chest and seemed to tickle an impressive erection that was very quickly fading. His facial features were sharp and well defined, his wide lips and strong jaw line in contrast to his blunt, upturned nose. Indigo eyes glared at Zechs from under long, shaggy bangs. The man's body was lean and just as well defined as his face, with taunt muscles in his abdomen, legs, and arms rigid with tension. Tattoos decorated his body – an intricate Celtic cross over his heart, a reaper's scythe over his right hip, lines of words across his upper arms and wrists, and a name, Solo, was visible on his collarbone, barely obscured by a gold cross on a thin chain.

 _Shit_ , was the only thought that Zechs had in his mind. _Shit, shit, bloody fucking shit_.

"Who _are_ you?" The man repeated, giving a vicious jerk against his bonds, no doubt hurting himself in the process.

Zechs never would have figured Ford was a fan of S&M – in fact, he hadn't even suspected that the cop was _gay_ – but he now had to deal with the overwhelming evidence of both.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, putting his back to the man, and tried to think just what the hell he was supposed to do in this situation.

He knew that if Mueller were here the violent, psychopath would quickly dispatch the man on the bed, burn his body, and ransack the apartment for any clues as to Ford's allegiance.

Zechs had no problem pulling the trigger – God only knew he had murdered enough men in his lifetime already to be familiar with the mechanics of it – but something about this seemed so senseless and cruel. Maybe it was the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue, coffee meant for the dead lover of the man tied to this bed he now sat on, but Zechs simply couldn't bring himself to kill him.

"I'm Detective Merquise," he finally said and turned so that he could see the man's reaction. "I'm investigating the… disappearance of Officer Ford."

"Disappearance? He's only been gone for three hours!" The indigo eyes narrowed. "Merquise, huh? So you're that pig who protects the dealers and crank labs in the Core?"

Zechs felt the muscles in his jaw bunch at the painfully true accusation, but he forced his face to remain neutral.

"How do you know who I am?" He asked, thinking that, if nothing else, maybe this man could give him enough intel on Ford to save his ass from Catalonia's anger.

"Words gets around among the animals. Rats always talk about their favorite pigs." The man spat the words, hatred coating his voice and almost covering the fear Zechs could detect.

Fear of who – of Zechs? Fear that he would kill him or torture him? But this man had that same fire in his eyes that Ford had had – that same devotion to a cause. He didn't fear death, likely didn't fear torture. No, he feared something else.

"Where is he?" The man asked, his voice deadly quiet, and Zechs suddenly knew what he was afraid of: he was afraid of what Zechs' presence meant.

"Officer Ford didn't like to follow orders from the Chief of Police… any idea whose orders he did follow?" Zechs asked instead of answering the question.

The man's indigo eyes closed for a moment and his Adam's apple bobbed three times before he opened his eyes and looked at Zechs again. The hatred, anger, and fear were gone, replaced with a cold determination that was eerily identical to the expression in Ford's eyes as he recited the Oath of Honor.

"He ah, he…" the man trailed off and coughed slightly. He grimaced. "Sorry, I've been tied up for a while. Mind untying me so I can get some water?"

Zechs wasn't stupid or naïve, and his irritation at the man's underestimation of him must have shown on his face.

The man grinned.

"Sorry. Had to try – but seriously – can you just get me a glass of water?"

Zechs frowned, but couldn't think of any way that the man could use his absence to his advantage – those knots seemed impossible for him to untie on his own – so he rose from the bed and went into the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water.

As Zechs approached the bed for a second time, he couldn't help but glance towards the man's now flaccid penis, and he noticed the tattoo of an anarchist 'A' just above the brown nest of curls.

Not for the first time, Zechs wished that circumstances had been different and he could have actually known Ford – because judging from this view alone, Ford must have been one hell of a complicated individual to have _ever_ become involved with this man.

"How did you know Officer Ford?" Zechs asked, although his eyes pretty much told him all he needed to know about their relationship. He sat down on the edge of the bed, closer to the man's head, and leaned over to give him a sip of the water.

"I take out his garbage," the man answered with a twist of his lips before gulping down the water.

Zechs pulled the glass away after a moment, when it was nearly empty.

"No, just let me finish it," the man said. "Never know when I'll have another chance."

Zechs frowned at that, but held the glass back to the man's face, having to tip it nearly vertical so that the last of the water would come out.

As he started to pull it away again, the man slammed his head forward into the glass, the force of his motion shoving the glass back against Zechs' nose. He felt the bone break and cursed, dropping the glass and falling off the bed to cradle his nose.

He watched, fascinated and in pain, as the man, his mouth filled with glass and blood, spat towards his hands.

Zechs had no idea what he was doing, and by the time he did it was too late – the man had spat a piece of glass into his hands and used it to cut one hand free.

He struggled to his feet and reached for his gun, but the man's legs suddenly wrapped around his throat, clenching tightly and crushing his airflow.

In a matter of seconds, the man's other hand was free and he pulled the gun from Zechs' holster before releasing him and scooting to the opposite side of the bed and getting to his feet.

"You crazy, fucking –" Zechs panted.

The man grimaced as he kept the gun trained on Zechs with one hand and with the other pulled out his butt plug.

"Who killed him?" The man asked.

"What?" Zechs massaged his throat, trying to play up the injury while he mentally tried to figure out how the _hell_ he was going to get out of this alive.

"Who killed Solo? It wasn't you. Who was it?"

"It could have been me," Zechs sneered, trying to figure out how the man had guessed.

"Bullshit. Solo said you were more of a bleeding heart liberal than his new rookie. You didn't kill him. You couldn't even kill me. So _who killed him_?" The force in the man's voice and the determination in his indigo eyes were unnerving.

"Who the hell are you?" Zechs finally thought to ask. It was quite clear now that this man wasn't just a sex toy for Ford, but someone dangerous.

The man sneered.

"I'm about to become your worst fucking nightmare if you don't tell me who the fuck killed Solo."

Zechs stood up and glared across the room at him.

"Officer Ford acted in a manner that disgraced his badge and his office. He was executed for –"

"That's bullshit!" The man raged, taking several steps towards Zechs before he caught himself.

It was clear that as angry as he was, it was useless for Zechs to try to goad him into a fight.

"This is the last time I'm asking you," the man said before cocking the trigger on the gun, "who killed him?"

Zechs briefly debated the merits of dying by the hand of a naked, tattooed man who's accent and diction clearly labeled him as a native of the L2 quarter. _Oh how the mighty have fallen_ , he thought to himself, picturing the man pissing on his dead body – a tradition among the L2 natives whenever they killed a cop on their own territory.

"Calias Catalonia," Zechs said. Of course it had been Mueller's hand that ended Ford's life, but Mueller was nothing, in the big scheme of things.

The hand on the gun wavered just slightly, but the man nodded.

Zechs watched the man as he rifled through a few drawers, the gun never leaving its aim on his heart. In almost no time, the man assembled a bag of documents, trinkets, and data cards that had been stashed amidst Ford's clothes. The very items that Zechs had been tasked with locating.

The man pulled on sweatpants and a track jacket, and Zechs had to admit that his dexterity and focus were admirable.

"I could have killed you," Zechs mused, half to himself, half to the man.

The man sneered.

"No, you really couldn't have. You hate the system just as much as Solo did. He knew you, knew you hate Catalonia and OZ and Romefeller. But unlike him, you're just a fucking coward, too afraid to _act_."

"And you? If you share his ideals then why aren't you acting on them?"

The man laughed.

"Oh, don't worry sweetheart, I am, and I'll continue to do so. Do me a favor, will you? Tell Catalonia that the God of Death is coming for him. The deal is off."

With those parting words, the man broke the closed window by the bed with his elbow and disappeared into the night.

"Fuck!" Zechs shouted at the empty room.

He had _nothing_ to take back to Catalonia, he had a broken nose, and if he didn't get his ass in gear he was going to be late for his meeting.

* * *

The Circus defied labels or explanations.

When Zechs had first been invited to the 'club' after his graduation from the police academy, it had been described variously as an opium den, a brothel, a gambling hall, a strip club, and a sports bar. The establishment was located in L3, a quarter known for its drug trade, high end prostitution, and shadowy political deals with the Mayor to keep Romefeller and OZ from infringing on their autonomy. 'Their' of course, referring to the Barton Foundation, who ran L3 just as efficiently and ruthlessly as Romefeller ran the Core and OZ ran L1.

The Barton Foundation had a very loose alliance with Romefeller, since it was clear that neither organization was in a position to overpower the other, and that open warfare between the two would simply allow another faction to step into position and make a power play.

So Zechs found himself swiping at the bridge of his nose one last time, just to make sure it had stopped bleeding, before he entered the club just after midnight.

He was immediately overwhelmed by the pulsating beat of music and the strobe of multicolored lights. Booths, bars, and gambling tables decorated the perimeter of the first floor of the huge, open room. The center was left open and empty, for dancing, but mostly for the entertainment shows that were provided every hour – usually featuring acrobats, contortionists, and animals all in keeping with the theme of the circus. On the second floor of the room were a series of curtained rooms and hallways, most guarded by armed personnel intent on protecting the anonymity of their clients.

High overheard, two aerialists, a man and a women, performed a series of intricate tricks on silken ropes. Zechs was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of their near naked bodies, dusted with golden glitter, as they flew through the air, alternately falling and catching themselves before twisting their amazing bodies into mind-boggling positions.

"You are late."

His attention was jerked away from the performance by the appearance of Midii Une. She was dressed in her customary, severely cut red pantsuit. Her hair was pinned to her head in two braids and the glasses perched on her nose reflected a pink glare that obscured her no doubt glaring eyes.

"My apologies," Zechs told her.

Une sniffed, but turned on her heel and gestured for him to follow her.

Zechs did so, keeping one eye on the performers as he did so.

 _How remarkable_ , he thought _, to fly like that with no concern for safety or death. To simply… exist_.

Une led him to the second floor and one of the rooms farthest from the main entrance but, Zechs knew from experience, closest to one of the many secret exits from the building.

She hadn't been lying – when he stepped inside he saw that everyone was, indeed, assembled and that he was the last to arrive.

"I apologize for the rudeness of my tardiness," he told the assembled individuals, but his gaze focused on the man at the head of the table.

"No need for apologies," Treize Khushrenada assured him, "we all understand having to… juggle our loyalties." His lips twisted into a smirk, and many around the table laughed.

Treize gestured for Zechs to take the seat opposite him, and he did so.

"Now that we are all gathered, I would like to take this opportunity to toast the first _official_ meeting of the Treize Faction." Treize raised a glass of champagne, and everyone around the table quickly followed suit. "Over the past few months, Lady Une and I have worked tirelessly to gather together this group. Everyone here tonight represents the future and is essential to our goal of establishing a new regime in Sanc. Together we will rid this city of the corruption and desperation of old men and replace it with strength, with _honor_." There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "And of course," Treize added with a significant look at Zechs, "with virtue."

"Here, here!" Several shouted.

"To the future," Treize intoned before taking a sip of his champagne.

 _And to the past_ , Zechs added for himself before following Treize's example.

"Now," Treize said after allowing each man a moment to celebrate. "The mayoral election is in four months. Currently there are three candidates – Duke Dermail, Deikim Barton, and Zayeed Winner."

"What about Thomas Darlian?" Michael Quinze asked from Treize's left side.

Treize waved his hand. "He is a non-issue. Lady Une will be having negotiations with him next week. He will be dropping out of the race. Now, obviously, if Dermail, the incumbent, is reelected then we can continue to form our network and slowly build an army of followers. With Dermail in power, we _will_ triumph, eventually. Likely we won't even need to stage a coup. One of us," he looked around the table, "will likely inherit power from the old man before the next election cycle in four years."

"You are the DA," Quinze pointed out. "The public face of Romefeller – the people trust you."

Treize nodded in agreement.

"Yes, but I'm more concerned about the potential of Barton being elected instead."

Zechs thought it was incredibly foolhardy, or at the least overly bold, for Treize to be discussing his fears of Barton _here_ , at The Circus – an establishment owned and operated by the man in question.

"He would put his own men in the Police force," Trant Clark spoke up. Unlike Zechs, he wasn't a member of the Sanc police force. Instead he was the overlord of the meth labs in the Core – the brains behind the drug cartel that allowed Romefeller to maintain control over the underworld and finance their operations. He was a man that Zechs often had a to protect – and a man that he despised. "That will be _very_ bad for business."

"Yes, " Treize agreed thoughtfully.

"But it would weaken Deikim and Romefeller," Zechs pointed out. "That would help us, in the long run."

"Indeed."

Trant turned to glare at Zechs – he was well aware of the loathing Zechs felt for him and returned it ten fold.

"What about Winner?" Une asked. "Dermail is obviously the ideal, but we could work with Barton. Winner, however, despises everything about Romefeller and OZ. He would never leave the officers of the Treize Faction in power."

"Exactly. Which is why he must be dealt with. Wouldn't it be lovely – so ironically beautiful – if he were killed? Mugged in L2 perhaps? Then his entire platform of pacifism and equality would die with him."

"We can easily arrange that," Quinze promised. Quinze was in charge of the gun running operations of OZ, the right-wing, elitist military arm of Romefeller, which liked to maintain a public façade as a political organization.

"Good," Treize smirked. He looked over at Zechs, and something in his expression must have given away his doubts about the proposed actions.

"Unless we want to wait? See how things play out? Perhaps we could find leverage on Winner after all?" He suggested.

Zechs sighed.

He knew Zayeed Winner – the man had been a friend of his father. The man was nothing without his ideals. He shook his head.

"No, there is no leverage for a man like that." He thought back to Ford's death – to the crazy man who called himself the God of Death. Men like that… they couldn't be bought.

"Excellent. Then if we are in agreement, let us adjourn this meeting and sample some of the pleasures in this palace of sin."

Treize chuckled at the immediate and delighted reactions of the individuals around the table as they practically tripped over themselves to leave the room and track down more entertaining pursuits.

Zechs remained, and as soon as they were alone with just Une, Treize allowed the mirth to fade from his expression.

"Something is troubling you," he said. Direct and to the point, as always.

Zechs carefully considered just how much to tell Treize.

Friendship wasn't something that Zechs dealt with lightly – his few friends were trustworthy and would lay down their lives to protect his own – but he also didn't deal with it blindly. He knew that Treize would take a bullet for him, knew that Treize would be by his side as he continued on his quest for vengeance and would even help him pull the trigger when he finally had the chance to execute those responsible for the murder of his family. But he also knew that Treize was cold and calculating, and that their friendship was only strong for as long as Zechs could be useful to the other man.

"Tonight Catalonia had Solo Ford executed."

Treize frowned and looked to Une.

"The officer who arrested Clark's dealers. The officer into whose custody twenty-nine men were released and found dead the next day."

Treize nodded as the words refreshed his memory.

"We can't pin the deaths to him, though, can we?"

Une shook her head.

"No. He has an alibi for every instance."

Treize turned back to Zechs.

"Why did Catalonia act tonight?"

"One of Ford's informants fingered him. Accidentally, I'm sure, but Catalonia had had enough. Mueller slit his throat. I was sent to Ford's apartment to find any dirt on him."

"And?" Treize asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Clean. Except… there was a man there. Ford's lover. He called himself the God of Death."

For the briefest second, Treize's eyes flicked to Une's before settling back on Zechs.

"How… melodramatic," Treize mused.

"He told me to tell Catalonia that the deal was off. Do you know what he could have been talking about?"

Treize shook his head immediately, and Zechs knew beyond a doubt that he was lying. Treize recognized the name, and he certainly knew about the deal – whatever it entailed.

"Think I should pass on the message to Catalonia?" He asked, fighting hard to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes, why not? It doesn't seem too important." Treize waved a hand in dismissal. "Maybe we'll get lucky and the bastard will manage to kill Catalonia. Then we can put _you_ in power as the Chief of Police."

Except that Zechs hadn't mentioned the man's threat to kill Catalonia.

"I've arranged a little entertainment for you," Treize said with a smirk. "You look like you could certainly use it."

With a frown, Zechs turned to see that Une was holding open the door to the room to admit the male aerialist.

"He seemed to catch your eye," Treize continued. "And indeed, he _is_ splendid to look at." Treize rose to his feet and as he walked past Zechs he squeezed his shoulder. "We will triumph, old friend," he assured Zechs.

For some reason, the words filled Zechs' mouth with the memory and taste of ashes.

Une left as well, and the aerialist regarded Zechs with detached green eyes half hidden by a long fall of auburn hair over one side of his face.

Zechs forced himself to put his memories at the back of his mind and buried all of his turmoil over the events of the evening. Treize was right about one thing – he _could_ use some entertainment.

From a distance, as he flew through the air, the aerialist had appeared nearly naked, and Zechs had assumed it was an allusion – some sort of flesh toned body suit.

But up close, the man was in fact covered only with gold body glitter and a thong that blended into his skin perfectly, the front decorated with a gold cluster of oak leaves that drew attention to the significant bulge underneath.

"What's your name?" Zechs asked as he allowed his eyes to rake over the perfection of the man's body.

"Trowa Barton."

An orphan, then. One of the dozens if not hundreds of orphans that the Barton Foundation scooped up from the streets and raised to become prostitutes. Each of the children were 'blessed' with the name of the Barton Foundation, promised a lifetime of service, and guaranteed a swift and painful death if they betrayed the Foundation.

Zechs sighed. He didn't really need the additional reminder that there was no possibility of escaping the cruelty and injustice that had overwhelmed Sanc. But he had it now, all the same.

"Come here."

Trowa obeyed immediately, crossing the room to Zechs and kneeling down in front of him.

Something about the submissive posture reminded Zechs of Ford's lover, tied up and naked, vulnerable yet full of fight.

"Not like that. I don't want a weakling," Zechs couldn't help but sneer.

Trowa's green eyes narrowed, and one side of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Why else would you want a whore?" Trowa asked.

Zechs' breath caught at the audacity of the man. Barton was infamous for training his prostitutes to cater to every whim and fantasy of their clients – no matter how depraved or painful. Prostitutes with attitude were quickly broken, often discarded, and certainly never allowed to entertain someone was important or well connected as Zechs.

He felt his hand itch to slap the man still kneeling at his feet.

"Go ahead," Trowa murmured, his green eyes never leaving Zechs' face. " Abuse my body. Allow yourself to feel power over someone with no escape. I'm used to it. I'm used to _you_."

The man had a serious death wish, sitting there, speaking to Zechs like this.

"But you aren't like the others, are you?" The man continued after a moment, his voice so low Zechs could barely hear it. "You know power doesn't lie in fear. Not real power."

It was the second time that night that Zechs had been called out by someone for not belonging to the band of happy, sadistic murderers, rapists, and criminals he associated with. It was twice too many times.

With a surge of anger, Zechs rose from the chair, gripped Trowa's shoulders, and pulled him to his feet.

As he forced Trowa's mouth open with his tongue and roughly scoured the hot, wet cavern of his mouth, Zechs tried to channel all of his anger, disgust, and self-loathing into the kiss. He didn't care anymore. He didn't care if he _was_ just like the others.

After all, he had sat by and watched a good man die tonight – perhaps the only good man left in all of Sanc. He had allowed a tied up sex toy to best him and escape with the very information that could secure Zechs' place at Catalonia's right hand. But worst of all, he was allowing himself to forget his quest, to forget the promise he had made to the memory of his dead father. He was abandoning virtue, forgetting everything that made him who he was.

Even a _whore_ could see the transformation and felt the need to call him on it.

Zechs very suddenly became aware of the fact that Trowa was returning his kiss with as much force and hunger as he had used to initiate it. The slightly shorter man's hands were wrapped around Zechs' waist, pulling their bodies flush together, and he actually moaned into Zechs' mouth when he dug his fingers in the tender, naked flesh of his ass.

He pulled away and looked into Trowa's hooded green eyes. There was desire in those detached green depths, and his near breathless panting was either the product of an amazing ability to act, or it was genuine.

"Well?" Trowa asked, cocking one eyebrow in challenge. "Did you want to fuck me or rape me?"

"You have a filthy mouth," Zechs muttered, reaching out to trace his thumb over Trowa's full, swollen lips.

Trowa held himself perfectly still, allowing Zechs to make up his mind – to decide whether or not to give in to the darkness or to fight it.

"Get on the table," he ordered Trowa.

The expression on his face was impossible to read, but Trowa did as instructed, sweeping the champagne glasses aside and laying his stomach and upper body on the table, presenting Zechs with the view of his perfect ass, the golden globes separated by only a thin strip of fabric.

"No," Zechs growled, "not like that. Turn over."

Trowa did so, rolling over to his back in one smooth motion and perching his heels on the edge of the table, the move forcing his pelvis upwards slightly, giving Zechs an obscenely arousing view of the man's lower body.

Trowa smirked up at him.

"Sorry, it's been a while since anyone fucked me," he murmured, absolutely no apology in his voice.

Zechs reached out and pulled down the thong covering Trowa, allowing an impressive erection to spring free of the material and providing unfettered access to Trowa's entire body.

His mouth suddenly felt dry, as he looked over this golden creature and realized just how desperately he needed this.

Trowa clearly thought he wasn't moving fast enough, because he wrapped his long, lean legs around Zechs' waist and pulled their groins together.

Zechs groaned at the friction, and Trowa repeated the motion.

"Impatient and insubordinate – don't tell me I'm paying extra for this," Zechs mused as he used one hand to jerk his trousers down and coated the fingers of his right hand in saliva.

"You aren't paying for this at all," Trowa groaned as Zechs started to prepare him.

That gave Zechs pause.

"What?"

"Treize Khushrenada's footing the bill for this little party, isn't he?" Trowa asked.

Zechs nodded but refused himself to think too much on the fact that even this – this momentary escape – had been orchestrated by Treize.

He entered Trowa in one smooth, powerful thrust.

Trowa's green eyes latched onto Zechs' own blue eyes. There was something about him – something about the way that he shifted his hips to meet each of Zechs' thrusts and draw him deeper into his own body while remaining completely silent as they fucked – that Zechs found incredibly enticing.

Finally, in an effort to draw some reaction from him, Zechs reached between their bodies and started to stroke Trowa's penis in time with his own thrusts into the other man's body.

It didn't take long for Zechs to reach the brink of his own orgasm, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph when Trowa came with a gasp just as he filled the other man with his own pleasure.

It took Zechs several minutes to catch his breath, and he felt incredibly reluctant to leave the warm, near scalding embrace of Trowa's body. Eventually, however, he stepped back, wiped himself clean, and pulled his trousers back up.

He watched idly as Trowa cleaned himself off, using a napkin wetted with champagne to wipe the mess from his belly and between his legs before pulling his skimpy underwear back into place.

Once he was finished, he looked up at Zechs, and that same detached look was back in his eyes. It was almost as if Zechs had managed to capture some spirit, trap it in Trowa's body while they fucked, and now it had escaped again.

"Come home with me."

The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider them, but Trowa certainly took his time weighing the request before he answered.

"It's going to cost you," the green eyed man said eventually.

Zechs shrugged.

"I'm not concerned. I can afford to foot my own bills."

Trowa's lips twisted into a smirk but he nodded.

"I'll get dressed and meet you by the front entrance."

Zechs watched him leave the room before burying his head in his hands.

 _What the hell am I doing? Bringing a whore home to my bed?_ Zechs knew there was every chance he could wake up in the morning with a knife in his heart. He had learned very early on not to trust strangers and yet…

If he were honest with himself, he almost hoped Trowa did kill him in his sleep.

When he walked through the club, Zechs easily picked up the members of the Treize faction, each indulging in their vices, but there was no sign of Treize. No doubt Treize kept his proclivities a secret – or perhaps they were too nefarious for even The Circus to service him.

Trowa was waiting for him in front of the club, as promised, his long legs encased in skin tight black jeans, while his torso was covered with a green turtleneck. He looked… disturbingly normal. Nothing like the golden creature Zechs had just possessed.

Zechs was starting to rethink the sanity of this once again, but Trowa's lips twitched into a smirk and Zechs couldn't help but accept the challenge.

* * *

They spent most of the night fucking, and when Zechs finally fell into an exhausted sleep an hour before dawn with Trowa stretched out beside him, for the first night in years, his sleep wasn't disturbed by nightmares.

In the morning, he woke alone and cold, and quickly discovered that Trowa had found all of his hidden cash and taken it – leaving behind a single dollar bill in his freezer.

Zechs stared at it for a long time, but eventually, he took out the bill and pressed it between the pages of his father's Bible.

He would accept this challenge too.

* * *

TBC

Next up:

We meet Heero Yuy, gun for hire.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Chapter 2**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The Watchmen but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like Batman and The Watchmen. And there's a fair influence from The Departed in here as well, especially regarding Sally Po.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Two

Ken Tsubarov liked to screw underage girls doped out of the minds.

As the City Treasurer he wasn't as visible as the Mayor, the City Manager, or even the City Council members, and Tsubarov certainly took advantage of his relative lack of fame to frequent his favorite brothels and opium dens whenever possible.

It made him as predictable as it made him disgusting, and it took almost no effort for Heero Yuy to plan the vile man's assassination.

It the grand scheme of things, Tsubarov's death was little more than a message to his owners – to the rest of the Romefeller Foundation – because no sooner would his body be placed under ground than a new, perhaps even more vile and perverted villain would be appointed to fill his position in the Sanc government.

But he was on the list, and it was Heero's mission to kill everyone on that list, and so he followed Tsubarov into L1 late one night and waited for him to go up to his usual room at his usual brothel. He waited until the girls had finished their job and left the old man to lounge, naked and content, on the filthy mattress stained from his activities.

Heero had learned early on not to judge his marks – it was a lesson Odin Lowe, his mentor, had pounded into his head until Heero could completely disassociate himself from the task of ending the life of another human being. Still, there were times, like now, when he didn't bother to divorce his disgust from his need to do his job.

Tsubarov was a bad man, and when Heero, camped on a rooftop a quarter mile away, pulled the trigger on his high powered sniper rifle, it was with relish that he looked through the scope and saw his head explode in a shower of red.

It wouldn't take long for Tsubarov's security personnel to find his body, and Heero needed to be as far away from this location as possible when that happened.

Since Tsubarov was someone that the police cared about, they would no doubt immediately shut down the area and look for his killer. In an effort to split their focus, Heero had planted explosive charges at a meth lab in the Core.

He checked his watch after packing up the rifle and clearing the rooftop. _Any second now…_

Sure enough, there was a resounding boom and a plume of smoke and fire off to his right.

Smirking, Heero packed the deconstructed rifle into the small carry compartment on his motorcycle and strapped on his helmet. He was just about to put the bike in gear when he remembered that he was out of milk and cookies.

He cursed silently. There was no way he could risk going into a grocery store and being caught on a surveillance camera tonight – it would be one of the first things the cops reviewed, and his face was unfamiliar enough to spark the interest of any cop with two spare brain cells.

Then again, Heero was convinced that none of the cops in Sanc had one, let alone two, spare brain cells. OZ and Romefeller didn't pay them to be smart – they paid them not to ask questions.

With a sigh, Heero decided that he would have to leave the quarter, just in case, and travel to L2 and grab his traditional pre-bed snack.

He was a grown man, and he knew it was a little ridiculous to hold onto the habit, but for as long as he could remember Heero had always had a glass of milk and a handful of cookies before brushing his teeth and going to bed each night. It was a habit that Odin had initially encouraged and later laughed at.

But it was the one normal thing about Heero's life, and he'd be damned if, after a night of decent work, he couldn't go out and just buy a bottle of milk and a package of cookies.

* * *

Heero didn't like to venture too far into L2 territory unless it was for work, and even then he made an effort to keep a low profile and stay off the grid of the local gangs and the strange justice system that L2 had crafted for itself.

He pulled off the highway loop into a convenience store just barely in the L2 quarter, alarmed his bike, and cautiously walked inside.

An old man in a gaudy Hawaiian print shirt manned the cash register, and two juvenile boys were at the back of the store, ogling pornographic magazines.

He quickly located the drink freezers at the back of the store and headed in that direction.

Heero stared at the dairy freezer in disgust. Nothing was organic, and everything was at least twice as expensive as it would have been in L1. Eventually, he opened the door and grabbed a quart of whole milk in a glass bottle, thankful that, at the very least, it wasn't in a plastic container.

He turned to find the cookie aisle just as another customer entered the store. Unobtrusively, Heero looked him over.

He was about Heero's height, lean and muscled, with a long braid of brown hair and a relaxed, open smile on his face. He was wearing black clothes – black shirt and pants with an open black leather jacket over them – and even though Heero couldn't see the bulge of any weapons, there was something about the man that set off warning bells in his head. He mentally marked him down as a potential threat before moving on to the cookie aisle.

"What's up Howie?" The man asked and casually leaned against the front checkout counter.

"Missed you today, Duo," the cashier replied.

"Ah, you know me, I'm not a fan of crowds. I'll go by the cemetery tomorrow, pay my respects."

"What are you doing out this late?" The cashier asked. "I thought you were off rotation this month."

Duo shrugged one shoulder.

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd come visit your ugly mug."

The cashier nodded and then looked past Duo to the two punk kids rifling through the porn mags.

"Don't get those pages sticky, you little shitheads!" He warned.

Duo chuckled and glanced towards the kids before his gaze settled on Heero. He looked Heero over with the same intensity that Heero had first regarded him with before turning away with a frown.

One of his hands drifted to the pocket of his jacket, the move and pose casual, but it was a clear signal to Heero that Duo had recognized a potential threat and was making a statement.

Heero rolled his eyes.

These L2 street thugs were all the same – posturing for territory and so embroiled with killing each other off that they couldn't even be bothered to realize that the entire city was going to shit around them.

Duo slowly moved down the aisles, until he was on the aisle opposite Heero. He picked out a candy bar and ripped it open with his teeth. He took a large bite and regarded Heero with narrowed, indigo eyes.

"You lost there, friend?" Duo asked, absolutely nothing friendly about his tone.

"Just buying groceries," Heero muttered.

"Don't the stores in L1 stay open this late?" Duo asked, and Heero was a little impressed that he could place his accent so quickly.

If he hadn't been on the job tonight – if he hadn't wanted to avoid any detection – he might have taken this opportunity to teach this thug a few lessons in politeness. But now wasn't the time.

Before Heero could formulate a decent comeback, the door to the store banged open and four men in black ski masks walked in brandishing guns.

"Shit," he heard Duo mutter before he tossed the candy bar away and started walking towards the men.

One of them spotted Duo instantly and directed his gun at the braided man.

"Hands up, faggot!" The man yelled.

Duo grinned, but it was a twisted, feral expression that moved him from a potential threat to incredibly dangerous in Heero's head. Duo held his hands up, but positioned his fingers so that only the middle ones were up, while the rest formed fists.

"You fucking –" the man started to charge towards Duo, but one of his companions pulled him back.

"Cool it, dipshit," the other man instructed before turning to the cashier. "Money, now."

The cashier regarded the masked men with disdain and made no move to reach for his cash drawer.

One of the thugs cocked his gun and placed it against the cashier's temple.

Duo strode forward, completely unconcerned when one of the thugs started yelling at him.

Heero took the opportunity to set down his milk and unobtrusively draw a gun. He looked around, grateful that in L2 there were hardly any working security cameras.

"Stop or I'll fucking shoot you!" The angry thug screamed at Duo.

"You'd fucking better shoot me," the braided man shouted back just before he launched himself forward, and Heero saw the silver glint of a knife just a second before it disappeared in the thug's neck.

Duo grabbed the gun from his hands before the body even hit the floor and trained it on the man intimidating the cashier.

"Put your gun down," Duo ordered in a quiet, deadly voice.

The other two thugs turned their guns on Duo.

"You're outnumbered," the leader pointed out before digging the gun deeper into the cashier's skull. "So why don't you put _your_ gun down and step away before my friends kill you."

Duo sneered, but kept the gun steady.

Heero thought through all of the possible ways this scenario could play out. Already one thug was down. If Duo caused any more trouble, they might decide to kill everyone in the store.

So Heero had two options: pull a gun on the thugs and help Duo; or pull a gun on Duo and help the thugs speed up this process. He was leaning towards the latter, because it was the safest and quickest way for him to get the hell out of this place and never come back.

But then one of the boys at the back of the store panicked and made a run for the door.

One of the thugs started to unload the entire clip of his submachine gun, spraying the boy's body with bullets and arcing his aim far enough that Heero felt the burn of a bullet passing through his side.

Duo took the opportunity to shoot the leader in the head before turning his gun on one of the remaining two thugs.

Without conscious thought, Heero aimed for the other.

"Get the fuck out of here right now," Duo growled, "or I swear to God I'll show you a side of L2 justice you've only ever had nightmares about."

The wild look in Duo's eyes, combined with two guns trained on them, seemed to have the desired effect. They started to walk away, but Duo turned his gun on the one that had killed the kid.

"Not you, mother fucker," Duo said. "You're about to make some new friends."

"But you said –" he started to speak and Duo lashed out, kicking him in the groin.

"I was speaking to this asshole," Duo snapped, "the one who hasn't yet signed his own death warrant. The one who needs to get a fucking _move_ on it."

Not needing to be told twice, the thug fled, abandoning his partner without a word of protest.

"Call Robby, he's on rotation this month," Duo instructed Howard. He kicked the thug again, this time delivering a blow to his right knee that sent him sprawling to the floor. Duo put a booted foot on his throat and kept his gun steady on his head.

"Alex," Duo said, speaking in a tone that sounded soothing. "Alex, I need you to check Mike's throat for a pulse."

He was speaking to the last kid, still at the porn rack, now openly crying.

"Alex," Duo repeated. "You gotta look out for your bro, man. You gotta check his pulse for me."

It looked like the boy was in no state to breathe, much less check the undoubtedly dead body of his friend.

Heero started forward, but Duo's gun was up and trained on him in a heartbeat.

"You stay exactly where you are," Duo ordered. "Don't fucking move and keep that gun where I can see it."

Heero found it interesting that Duo didn't order him to toss the weapon. He allowed it to fall loosely around his index finger, but Duo kept his gun trained on Heero.

"Alex. Pull it together, buddy." There was a hint of steel to his voice now, and the boy was finally galvanized into action.

Heero couldn't see him over the aisle as he crouched down and checked the body, but he could certainly hear his choked sobs.

"He's not… he's not…"

"Okay. It's okay, Alex. You did good, man. Now I gotta ask you one more favor, then you're done, okay?"

Alex stood and ran a hand over his face, wiping at drool and snot.

"Mike's Dad is gonna be over at the bar on 9th, right?"

Alex nodded.

"You gotta go get him. Tell him to get his brothers and to get here as soon as he can, okay? You don't have to tell him anything else," Duo quickly added when Alex looked panicked.

"Can you do that for me, buddy?" Duo asked.

Alex nodded jerkily.

"Good. Get going."

Alex took off without another word, running out of the store and out of sight.

"Robby's on his way," the cashier said into the silence after Alex's departure.

"Good."

Duo stomped down on the thug's throat, presumably in retaliation for him trying to move, and Heero heard the man groan in pain.

Duo repeated the motion a few more times, a vicious snarl on his face, before he speared Heero with his gaze.

"Now, friend, our introductions were cut short. Who are you and why are you in my quarter?"

Heero looked between the cashier and Duo. The cashier looked just as interested in Heero's answer as the man who had asked the question.

"Heero Yuy," he said after a brief mental debate. He didn't often give out his real name, but something told him that honesty was absolutely the best policy when dealing with this man. "I ran out of milk and cookies."

Duo looked at him in disbelief, but the cashier gave a cackle of a laugh.

"They ain't got those in L1?" The cashier demanded.

"I didn't want the attention."

Duo's eyes narrowed.

"Hey, Howie, you catch that news story about those meth labs getting blown up in the Core earlier tonight?" Even though he was speaking to the cashier, Duo's eyes never left Heero's.

"Yeah, I saw it on the scroll," the cashier responded. "Don't know how it would affect the milk and cookies in L1 though," he added.

Duo grinned at that, but slowly lowered his gun so that he was pointing it back at the thug under his feet.

"Maybe you should learn to go without midnight snacks in the future," Duo told him.

"Habit," Heero responded while he put his own gun away and reached for the milk and cookies.

There was a sudden rush of activity at the door that had Heero pulling it back out, however, as six men filled the entrance to the store.

Two guns immediately focused on Heero.

"Whoa, whoa, it's cool, Robby – Tracy! He's with me." Duo shouted at the two men with guns.

Reluctantly, they put the weapons away and surveyed the bloody carnage at the front of the store.

"Jesus fuck, Maxwell. What the hell did you do now?" One of them asked.

Duo shrugged.

"Alex told me you needed me, Duo," another man pushed his way to the front. "You know I'm off rotation this month."

Duo nodded solemnly.

"It's Mike. He's…"

But the man had clearly seen his son's body. He pushed past Duo and disappeared from Heero's view.

"He the one that did it?" One of the other men asked. All of them bore a faint resemblance to the man now weeping openly on the floor.

"Yeah," Duo said and kicked the thug on the floor one last time for good measure. "But he ain't a local."

Robby and Tracy scowled at that.

"Where's he from, then?" One of them demanded.

"Dunno," Duo said. He looked over at Heero. "Any ideas, hot shot?"

Heero put away his gun, feeling stupid, and finally approached the two bodies at the front of the store.

"Check for tats," he offered.

This close, he could see several nearly healed cuts around Duo's mouth.

Duo nodded in agreement and knelt down to jerk off the mask on the thug under his foot and then ripped open his shirt.

"Fuck me," Duo muttered. "Any of you recognize this?"

Tattooed on the man's right pectoral muscle was a circle with three dots above an M.

Heero shook his head, as did the other men.

"'Fraid he's not going to be doing too much talking," Duo said after a moment and finally removed his foot from the man's throat.

He rolled away, gasping for air and making strange, choking noises.

"It's okay. We don't need to hear him talk while we kill him," one of the men assured Duo. They pulled the thug to his feet and dragged him from the store.

Duo looked over at Heero and frowned suddenly. Heero followed his gaze and saw that he had bled through his t-shirt. He instinctively covered the wound with one hand.

"You need my help with any of this, Robby?" Duo asked one of the men.

He shook his head.

"Nah, get out of here. I'll take care of the clean up – but come by soon so I can get the report taken care of."

"Will do." Duo turned to Heero. "C'mon, buddy," he said.

Heero scowled at him, unsure what the invitation indicated.

Duo rolled his eyes.

"Howie, put his damn milk and the cookies on my account, will ya?" He asked the cashier.

"Sure thing, Duo!"

"Now, c'mon," Duo said again and started to walk from the store.

Not entirely sure why, Heero followed him.

"That your bike?" Duo asked once they were outside.

"Yeah."

"Think you can ride it?"

Heero frowned and took a deep breath. It didn't feel as if the bullet had hit anything vital, but he was feeling extremely light headed. That said, this was L2 – he doubted that his bike would be safe for an hour on these streets unattended.

Duo rolled his eyes again and opened the door to the store.

"We're leaving my buddy's bike here for the night," he shouted inside. "Keep an eye on it."

He turned back to Heero.

"No one will touch it," he promised before reaching out and grabbing the milk and cookies from Heero's grasp. "Now let's get you somewhere so I can look at that bullet hole in ya."

Heero frowned as Duo started to walk away.

"Why are you doing this?" he had to ask.

Duo gave him a crooked grin.

"I'm out of milk and cookies too," he said with a chuckle.

Heero decided that the man was a lunatic, and he definitely didn't appreciate being made fun of. All the same… he had bled for that milk and those cookies. He wasn't about to let some asshole just walk off with them.

Angrily, Heero started to follow Duo deeper into L2.

* * *

It turned out that the braided menace lived in the abandoned, burnt out shell of a church. From the outside the place looked like a disaster zone – charred timber and soot covered stone barely standing – but as Heero followed Duo up a set of steel reinforced stairs he realized that it was all a cover.

Duo opened a door at the top of the stairs and ushered Heero into what could only be described as an alternate reality.

The dirt and poverty of L2, the remains of the church – all of those were blocked out by high end brushed aluminum walls, a spotless wooden floor, and enough high tech gadgetry that Heero's fingers involuntarily reached out to the nearest control panel on one wall.

With a smirk, Duo slapped his hand away.

"No touching until you've been house trained," Duo said with a warning in his voice.

His words and tone irritated Heero, but they couldn't overcome his sense of wonder at all of this. Who _was_ this lunatic and just how had he managed to purchase this gear, install it, and keep it a secret?

Which led Heero to a far more disturbing question – why did Duo trust him enough to bring him here?

Heero started to reach for his gun, but Duo had a knife out and resting against his throat before he could complete the gesture.

"Nuh-uh. You're injured, buddy. Here, I'll just hold onto that for you."

Duo pulled the gun out of his holster and then gave him a thorough pat down, taking Heero's other two guns and his three hold out knives. The only thing Duo didn't take was the pen in Heero's pocket, and he was grateful for that small oversight. If it came down to it, Heero was more than prepared to kill the other man with that as his only weapon.

Duo put the weapons on a side table and gestured for Heero to sit at the low bench beside what had to serve as his kitchen table.

"Take off your shirt," Duo instructed as he pulled off his jacket and revealed the dual shoulder holsters and the two Five-SeveNs they held.

Heero gingerly followed Duo's orders, less because it was an order and more because it was the logical course of action for treating his wound.

"Not too bad," Duo remarked as he looked over Heero's chest.

He walked over to a row of cabinets, sink, and refrigerator and pulled a clean towel from a drawer and ran it under the water.

He came back, but instead of handing it to Heero he knelt down and started to clean the wound himself, probing gently at the area and even looking apologetic when Heero gave a hiss of pain.

"I could pull one of your guns right now and shoot you in the head," Heero mused absently and realized he really had lost a fair amount of blood if he was _chatting_ about killing someone.

Duo smiled lopsidedly.

"Probably," he agreed before reaching around to Heero's back. "Good news is it's through and through. Bad news is… you've lost a shit ton of blood."

"It didn't hit anything vital," Heero added.

Duo arched an eyebrow.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, but I know enough about anatomy to know that I'll be fine."

Duo shrugged.

"Probably," he said again before rising to his feet.

Heero watched as he tossed the bloody towel into his empty sink and lit it on fire before rooting around for a first aid kit.

As Duo patched him up, Heero stared at the flames, mesmerized and baffled.

"You're burning the evidence."

"Unless you want to keep it as a souvenir?" Duo offered but made no move to rise from where he sat in front of Heero, patiently and meticulously stitching up the bullet wound.

"Those are good," Heero couldn't help but comment as he noticed how small and even the stitches were.

"Yeah, I guess I can play doctor a little bit too," Duo agreed.

It was another half hour before Duo finished stitching up his front and back and put bandages over the wounds.

The braided man sat back on his heels and nodded at his handiwork.

"Should heal pretty cleanly."

"You've had experience with this type of injury before." On occasion, Heero had been forced to stitch his own wounds, but he had never been able to manage the precision or patience that Duo had just demonstrated. He was willing to bet that the other man had plenty of experience – and likely not on himself.

"Friend of mind liked to get filled with lead on occasion," Duo said with a careless shrug. He picked up Heero's discarded shirt.

"Want me to wash this for you?" He asked.

Heero frowned.

"Why the hell are you doing this?"

"One good turn deserves another, don't it?" Duo asked lightly.

Yet Heero was confident it was more than that. L2 had some crazy ideas about justice, but inviting a stranger into your very high-tech, very illegal home wasn't covered in any code Heero knew about.

"Why'd you blow up those meth labs in the Core?" Duo asked.

Heero scowled at the question. He still didn't understand how Duo had managed to make that connection so fast, but Duo already knew far more about him than almost anyone else alive. It was dangerous.

Duo sighed and took Heero's shirt over to his washing machine, threw it in, and started it. He turned around and looked at Heero for a long moment.

"I've seen you before," he finally said. "I recognized your face, back at the store."

That had Heero tense and anxiously reaching into his pocket for the pen.

"Last May Day at the memorial park – there were a bunch of speakers and one of them, Jay Null, was almost killed. Guess a sniper was targeting him or something? Then out of nowhere this guy rushes the stage and saves the old man's life, pushes him down just in time. That guy was _you_."

Heero closed his eyes.

It would have been one thing if Duo recognized him from a hit – but the fact that Duo remembered him from _that_ – from the one time that he had directly disobeyed Odin's orders… not only was it dangerous but it was also humiliating.

"So I'm just wondering… what line of work are you in that has you saving old guys one day and blowing up meth labs the next?"

"Saving Jay wasn't a job. _Killing_ him was. My boss was the sniper and I went against the mission and saved Jay's life instead."

Duo arched an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Jay Null was one of five men who worked to create the modern infrastructure of Sanc."

"Okay…"

"He knows everything about the electrical grid, the sewer systems, the roads, the internet – all of it."

Duo frowned.

"Really?"

"He and the others, yes."

"So why was he going to be killed in the first place?"

"He sold out. To the Barton Foundation. He planned to assist them in a bid for power. Our job was to stop that from happening. I… thought Romefeller could use some friendly competition instead."

Duo's eyes crinkled in what Heero could only assume was genuine mirth.

"I like the way you think, Heero Yuy," he said with a shake of his head.

"I'm not sure that's a compliment," Heero muttered before he could stop himself.

Duo actually laughed at that, a deep baritone chuckle so infectious that Heero had to fight to keep a straight face.

Duo walked back to the kitchen and regarded the milk and cookies he had left on the counter. He pulled two glasses from a cabinet and split the milk between them.

He walked back to the table and set the milk and cookies between them and sat down opposite Heero.

"So, this meth lab… you got something against drugs or dealers?"

"Romefeller and OZ," Heero answered after taking a sip of the milk.

Duo nodded.

"Yeah, I know how that feels."

Heero looked around the room again.

"Is that what all of this is for?" he asked.

Duo grinned.

"This? Nah. I just like to play video games and stuff."

"You're a terrible liar," Heero muttered.

Duo shrugged one shoulder.

"Yeah, but I'm still not sure I can trust you – after all, you've spent all this time thinking of ways to kill me with that damn pen in your pocket, haven't you?"

Heero scowled, which only made Duo chuckle.

"Relax, buddy, if I was you I'd be doing the same."

"So you aren't planning on killing me?" Heero asked. He could tell that Duo would be a tough fight, especially in his current condition, but Heero was almost confident he could take him down.

"Not so much. You're too interesting to just kill off. 'Sides, if you spend all your time going around blowing up shit because you're mad at OZ and Romefeller then that almost makes you a friend of mine."

"I'm not sure that I want _you_ for a friend," Heero muttered.

"Me either," Duo agreed, and any trace of humor left his face. For just a moment, he looked completely and utterly lost, a hopeless tinge to his strangely colored eyes and a downward pull to the curve of his lips that looked unnatural.

Slowly, Heero reached across the table and opened the package of cookies. The movement seemed to shake Duo out of whatever dark mood he had fallen under.

He took a few cookies for himself and munched on them quietly.

"You ever wonder what this city could be like, without OZ and Romefeller and Barton?" Duo asked idly.

"No," Heero answered bluntly. "There will always be an OZ or a Romefeller or a Barton. Humanity…"

"Is full of humans," Duo finished for him.

Heero nodded in agreement, grateful that Duo had immediately understood what he was trying to say.

"Yeah," Duo said with a sigh. He finished off his glass of milk and returned it to the sink.

Heero decided that now was the time to make his move – Duo seemed distracted and had his back turned to him.

Silently and quickly, he rose from the table and closed the distance between himself and Duo and shoved the pen against the other man's jugular from behind with one hand and using his other to pull one of Duo's guns.

As soon as he had the weapon, Heero started to back away, the gun trained on Duo as the braided man slowly turned around, both of his hands up and a look of amusement on his face.

"I guess you don't want to have a sleepover, then?" Duo asked.

Heero stared at him, thrown by the indifference the other man showed to having a gun drawn on him.

"You probably shouldn't walk around L2 this time of night without a shirt on," Duo said and laced his hands together behind his head and leaned back against the counter.

Heero frowned. He hadn't considered that.

"Top drawer on the right," Duo instructed with a nod.

Cautiously, Heero backed towards the drawer and eased it open, half expecting some kind of trap, but the drawer was full of neatly folded button up shirts.

As he pulled one of the shirts on, Duo started to chuckle.

"What?" Heero asked defensively.

"Nothing, nothing. Sorry. Just thinking… this time last week I was on the other end of one of these things… funny how life twists everything around."

Heero decided that the man was definitely mentally unstable.

He walked towards the door and collected his weapons, carefully putting them back in place.

"Just leave my gun there, would ya?" Duo asked with a friendly smile.

"No, I think I'd like a souvenir after all," Heero told him.

The smile left Duo's face and he started forward just as Heero slammed the door closed and took off at a sprint.

He expected to hear Duo's footsteps pounding down the stairs after him, but there was silence.

Still, he constantly looked over his shoulder as he made his way back to the convenience station.

His bike was, as promised, completely untouched. Heero started it up and rode away, vowing not to return to L2 for as long as he could.

* * *

He was almost late for work the next morning, arriving just as the digital clock in his office turned to nine.

At five after nine, the phone at his desk rang.

"Heero Yuy," he answered immediately.

"My office. Now."

Heero hung up the phone and stood up from his desk. He tapped a few buttons of the keyboard of his computer, engaging the screensaver and locking down the hard drive from external attack.

He straightened his tie, made sure his glasses were evenly balanced on his nose, and made a feeble attempt to brush his unruly hair back from his forehead.

Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door to his office and strode confidently down the hall to the door marked ' City IT Administrator' and below that a smaller sign 'Odin Lowe', and knocked briskly.

"Enter," a deep voice called out.

Heero opened the door and then closed it behind himself. He stepped forward and stood in front of the broad desk and met the eyes of the man behind it.

"Your mission went according to plan."

It wasn't a question, so Heero didn't bother to respond.

"Yet you failed to check in after eliminating the mark."

Heero bowed his head.

"Yes sir," he agreed.

"No excuses?"

"None, sir."

"If you aren't prepared to –"

"I am prepared," Heero interrupted angrily. "I fulfilled the mission and I left the target site without incident. I _am_ prepared."

He held the dark blue gaze of the man behind the desk, refusing to flinch or look away.

"Collateral?" Odin asked after a moment.

Heero shook his head without hesitation. There had been no collateral damage at the site of Tsubarov's execution, and Odin certainly wasn't interested in knowing whether or not Heero had sustained any injuries. Of course, Odin would _definitely_ be curious about Duo Maxwell and the strange hideout he lived in.

But Duo was right - one good turn deserved another.

"None," he clarified when Odin continued to hold his gaze.

"Very well. Your next assignment." A file folder was shoved forward on the desk, and Heero picked it up.

He flipped open the folder, revealing a single strip of paper, no larger than the fortune inside a Chinese cookie.

"Zayeed Winner," he murmured and then frowned. "He isn't on the list."

"You said you were prepared. Perhaps you were mistaken?" A hand reached out for the folder.

"No, sir, I'm prepared. I just… don't understand."

"Your job isn't to understand, your job is to eliminate the marks you are assigned. _Some_ of those marks are on our list. Some are for financial gain."

Which meant that either OZ or Romefeller had put a hit out for Zayeed Winner's life.

Heero put the file back on the desk but held onto the small strip of paper, putting it into his pocket before turning to leave.

"Heero."

He stopped, but didn't bother to turn around. He recognized that tone of voice all too well.

"Don't let me down, son."

"Yes, father."

* * *

TBC

Up Next:

Someone gets in over their head…

* * *

**Chapter 3: Chapter 3**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The Watchmen but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like Batman and The Watchmen. And there's a fair influence from The Departed in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Three

 _This is the last time_ , Meilin assured herself as she stealthily rose from the bed and gathered her discarded clothes as silently as possible. _The absolute_ last _time that I sleep with my boss_.

She took her bundle of clothes to the bathroom and gently closed the door before she turned on the light.

Her reflection was awful – slightly bloodshot eyes, smeared makeup, and her hair was bunched at odd angles. She groaned and looked longingly at the empty shower stall.

But he hated it when she showered here. Hated it when she did anything that took this from a casual fling to something that could even border on a committed relationship.

 _I don't fucking care_ , Meilin silently raged. _I'm done with this shit_.

Defiantly she turned on the water in the shower and smirked at the loud rush, a sign of the excellent water pressure and high quality plumbing fixtures.

Neither or which _she_ had access to.

L5 was a strange quarter – they were all strange, for sure – but L5 wasn't an industrial wasteland like L2 or a financial bastion like L1, not a sleek, dangerous underworld like L3 and certainly not an utopian suburb like L4. Instead, L5 was a combination of all the other quarters – and the populace ranged from dirt poor to extravagantly rich.

She fell in the middle – the lower part of the middle, to be sure – but her lover, her _boss_ was definitely in a class with the extravagantly rich.

The shower felt like heaven, and she allowed herself a full fifteen minutes under the scalding spray of water. She used his soap and shampoo and felt instantly jealous as she lathered her hair and the heavenly scent of jasmine and honey filled her nostrils.

 _What a hedonist_ , she thought angrily. It also explained why his hair was always so silky smooth. His hair was so perfect that she had started to wear hers pulled back, just so he wouldn't try to run his hands through it and feel all of her split ends and her own, less than silky texture.

She dried herself off, gleefully used his toothbrush to clean her teeth, and finally dressed in her clothes from yesterday.

Once, months ago, she had thought ahead and brought an overnight bag. He had gone through the roof – swearing that she was trying to move in and likely wasn't even on birth control as she had claimed.

So, with only twenty minutes to get to work, she resigned herself to wearing the same clothes two days in a row.

When she stepped out of the bathroom he was just stirring, his broad, golden back and the rounded curve of his sculpted ass the only things visible. He liked to sleep with his head under a pillow – a wonderful metaphor for how he liked to live his life, Meilin often thought – and those delicious five hundred thread count cotton sheets rode low on his hips.

Feeling reckless, she cleared her throat loudly.

When he still didn't move, she crossed over to the bed and ran one hand over his spine.

She would miss this, at least. _God, his body is perfect_ , she mused as he arched under her hand and finally rolled over.

As soon as he saw her, dressed, hair up but still noticeably wet, smelling like him, he scowled.

"You used my shower."

"I was disgusting," she snapped. "If you're worried about your water bill I'll write you a damn check."

He closed his eyes.

"This arrangement doesn't –"

"This arrangement is _over_ , Wufei Chang. I'm not doing this anymore."

He opened his eyes again and regarded her with amusement.

"You said that last month… and the month before that…" he sighed. "You're about to start your period and you're feeling overly emotional. It's just a female thing. In a week, you'll come back."

He rolled over, giving her his back.

Furious and impotent, Meilin lashed out and delivered a sharp hit to his kidneys.

"What the fuck?" Wufei curled into a ball and glared at her. "You crazy bitch."

"No. I am not coming back here, ever again." She stood up. "You treat me like a whore, Wufei. And I'm not. I get that I'm not the girl you want to bring home to meet your parents – I get that this isn't a relationship headed for happily ever after. But I deserve better than this! I don't care how good you are in bed, it's not worth you treating me like this!"

He sighed again.

"Is this about your article?"

"No! Yes! Yes, it is!"

"Meilin, I didn't reject your article because I'm sleeping with you. I rejected it because it isn't something that _The Daily News_ should be printing."

"Oh really?" It still galled her that they were the same age – twenty five – had attended all of the same schools – her on scholarships – had both spent four years slaving away at _The Daily News_ and yet Wufei, with his family connections and his penis, was now an assistant editor while she was stuck writing obituaries.

"Yes, really," he muttered. "You need to learn to distance your emotions and your work. You tangle everything up – and _that_ is why we can't have a functional relationship. You care too much about things that don't matter."

"Things that don't – you call the _murders_ of Zayeed Winner and Thomas Darlian things that don't _matter_? They were perhaps the _only_ City Councilmen who aren't corrupt and they were both running for mayor and now they are both dead. How is that something the people of Sanc don't need to know?"

"Speculation and conspiracy theories. You've no proof that they were murders. Well, obviously Winner's death was a murder – but it was just a mugging gone wrong. And Darlian died in a car accident. You can't blame either of those on Romefeller and OZ so just _let it go_."

"I can't let it go, Wufei! This is the future of Sanc! People trust _The Daily News_ to give them the truth."

"Your job for _The Daily News_ is to write obituaries, Meilin. Not to go muckraking or stirring up trouble. Keep at it a few more years. Maybe I can get you a job on the society beat."

She didn't even bother to hide her disgust.

"I got into this business to make a difference, Wufei. Not to report the deaths of rich white men or to write five hundred words on the kind of lace that Relena Darlian chose for her latest cocktail dress."

"No one really wears lace cocktail dresses," Wufei muttered. "It's more of a day time fabric unless we're talking black lace or –"

Meilin picked up the nearest object – Wufei's laptop – and hurled it at his head.

He caught it and glared at her in fury.

"Don't you care Wufei? Don't you care about _anything_? I know you have eyes, I _know_ you know what happens outside of your posh apartment and your glass office. You're an assistant editor for the most well read paper in Sanc. Don't you want to change things?"

"Change isn't something one man can accomplish," he said after a long silence.

She sat back down on the bed and held out her hands.

"But two people working together… surely _we_ could accomplish something?"

Wufei stared at her hands for a moment and then turned away.

Fighting back tears, Meilin rose to her feet and walked out of the room

* * *

Things were always slow on Tuesdays.

By noon, Meilin had typed up the seven obituaries to be printed in the next day's paper and was done for the day.

Of course there had been more than seven deaths the previous day – by her estimate there were at least two dozen, likely more – but _The Daily News_ didn't print obits for the denizens of L2 or L3. No one, Wufei had once told her, cared if a street rat or a prostitute died.

She waited until the other desks around her cubicle had cleared out as everyone took lunch before she logged on to the internet and pulled up a website that, if her colleagues knew she looked at, would get her fired.

Of course, she wasn't just _looking_ at _The Nightly News_. She wrote it.

Four months ago, in the middle of one of their frequent arguments, Wufei had shouted at Meilin that if she hated working for _The Daily News_ so much she should just start her own paper.

So she did. _The Nightly News_ was everything the _Daily_ wouldn't print: stories about crooked cops, rigged elections, drug dealers, rapists – all the news that told the truth about Sanc that Wufei insisted no one wanted to know. Things that weren't important.

But there were good things too – she took the extra effort to track down any stories of hope or success and published those as well. Because there _was_ hope. There had to be.

The first week she had posted the newspaper online she had had seventeen visitors –the second week five hundred. Now, four months later, over one hundred thousand people read _The Nightly News_.

Wufei was right, though, they weren't the people who lived in the Core or L4 – probably not even L1. She was willing to bet that most of her readers were from L2, L3 and L5. The anonymous tips she received in her mailbox certainly seemed to indicate that – almost all of the leads for stories had to do with those three quarters.

Two weeks ago two of her primary sources had stopped sending her information. One of those sources, "Falcon01," was now dead. So she couldn't really blame him for not being able to send emails from the grave. But the other, the "Jester" had simply stopped responding to her emails and seemed as though he had just vanished into the night.

Meilin had come to rely on those two, not just for tips, but also for her to give intel to - she had met Falcon01 pretty early on in her endeavors, but she still hadn't met Jester and she had no idea what he did for a living. But whenever she gave him something, he took care of it, no questions asked, no trails leading back to her.

She loaded two new articles onto the site – one linking Winner and Darlian's murders to the Romefeller Foundation and OZ – and another on the rise of crime in L2 linked to outsiders. That had been the last information Jester had given her – a list of five brutal crimes over the course of eight days, all perpetrated in L2 by thugs no one recognized and who spoke like outsiders.

Her work done, Meilin decided it was time to start making new contacts.

She knew what she was doing was dangerous, knew that Wufei was right to be cautious, even cowardly, about going up against Romefeller and OZ. But someone had to do it.

Her first stop was the police station. She hated walking into the pristine concrete building, looking at the bright, seemingly honest faces in their navy uniforms and shining badges.

Meilin hated hypocrites – and the police station was the single biggest gathering of them in all of Sanc.

"I'm looking for Hilde Schebeker," she said to the nearest police officer, a woman her own age with long blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and seriously tragic eyebrows.

One of those eyebrows arched upwards in disdain.

"Trainee Schebecker is on the third floor, in the pen."

"Thank you, Officer… Catalonia," Meilin read her nameplate and felt her stomach roll over. Of course the daughter of the Chief of Police would work for her father. That Catalonias were almost as infamous as the Bartons – and certainly as bloodthirsty and tied to family loyalty.

"My pleasure, Miss?"

"Long. Meilin Long."

Catalonia gave her a thin smile.

"Why don't I escort you to her desk then, Miss Long?"

"Thank you."

Meilin refused to be intimidated by this woman, and as she followed her through the police station she kept her head high and her shoulders straight.

This was a den of wolves, and she had learned enough from "Falcon01" to know that the people working here would sooner kill her than allow her to expose the true workings of the police force.

Hilde Schebeker turned out to be a petite woman with closely cropped dark hair and wide, dark eyes that seemed filled with intelligence and honesty.

 _Just as he had described her_ , Meilin thought.

Catalonia cleared her throat as they approached, and Schebeker looked up from a mountain of paperwork on her desk.

"You have a _visitor_ ," Catalonia said.

Schebeker looked at Meilin with a slight frown.

"Okay…"

Catalonia stood there for a moment.

"I think I can find my way to her desk now, Officer," Meilin spoke up. "Thank you."

The words earned her a fierce glare from Catalonia and a delighted smirk from Schebeker.

"Very well."

Catalonia turned on her heel and stalked away, her long blonde hair swishing angrily with each stride.

"Scary bitch," Meilin muttered, and Schebeker laughed.

"You're telling me," she agreed before gesturing to the seat across from her desk.

"Actually, I was hoping I could interest you in a cup of coffee somewhere," Meilin said.

"Really?" Schebeker had a skeptical look in her eyes.

"Yes. To discuss a friend. An old friend. He moved away recently, and he wanted you to have something." Meilin hoped that was vague enough – she was garbage at this cloak and dagger nonsense.

Schebeker's eyes narrowed and she looked around furtively before nodding.

"Yeah. I can take my lunch break now." She grabbed her jacket from her desk and led Meilin out of the building without another word.

As they left, Meilin couldn't help but notice Catalonia's icy gaze locked onto them, tracking them with the intensity of a predator.

She shivered and forced herself to put the scary woman at the back of her mind and focus on the now.

They didn't speak again until they were sitting down at a dive restaurant seven blocks from the police station. The customers all looked up when they walked in, but Schebeker's jacket covered her uniform and badges, and everyone went back to their food.

It looked as though the clientele were lower class, working individuals. The only odd looking person in there – besides Meilin and Schebeker – was an exotic looking man with messy, dark hair and glasses obscuring most of his face. He was seated at a booth across the aisle from them, but his attention seemed to be completely focused on the salad in front of him and a cheesy looking romance novel. He was dressed like some kind of tech – white shirt, tie, dark trousers – and Meilin quickly wrote him off.

"I'm a friendly person," Schebeker said as an opening after a waitress took their orders. "So I've got a lot of friends. Which one do you know?"

"Knew," Meilin corrected. She watched as Schebeker's mouth hardened into a grim line and she nodded once.

"He liked to read," Meilin continued, "and was a fan of my work."

Schebeker arched an eyebrow.

"I'm a reporter."

The other woman gave a snort of disdain.

"A reporter? For _The Daily News_? Solo thought that rag was a piece of shit. He only ever read –" she stopped herself from saying the name out loud, but her eyes widened.

Meilin nodded and reached into her briefcase. She pulled out one of two manila envelopes and passed it to Schebeker.

"I only met him a few times, but we… trusted each other. He wanted to protect you, and he didn't want you to get involved. But I convinced him you should have the choice. He gave this to me, in case anything ever happened to him."

Schebeker took the envelope and stared at it blankly.

"I always told him I wanted in. I _told_ him I could do it, but he never thought I was good enough or strong enough."

Meilin shook her head.

"That wasn't it at all. He wanted to protect you from it _because_ you were good and strong. He knew you could make a difference, but he didn't think the time was right."

"And now? Now that he's dead? Now the time is long past."

"No, Hilde, it isn't. Our time is coming – _his_ time is coming." Meilin paused and sat back as the waitress returned with their food.

Neither woman made a move to touch their plates.

"What do you want from me?" Schebeker asked after a moment.

Meilin frowned.

"I don't – "

"You do. I'm from L2, you know. I grew up in L1, lived with my Mom and went to good schools, but my Dad lived in L2 and I used to visit him once a month. I _know_ when someone's trying to use me. If nothing else, Solo taught me that I couldn't trust anyone. So what do you want?"

Meilin hadn't anticipated this kind of hostility or cynicism. Solo had always insisted that Schebeker was an innocent. Perhaps his death really had pushed her to the limit?

"Solo and I used to work together," Meilin said after a brief staring contest. "I gave him information and he did the same for me. Nothing I print could ever be traced to him – I made sure to protect him."

"Fat lot of good it did," Schebeker muttered.

Meilin had to agree with that.

She had spent many sleepless nights since Solo's death pacing her apartment – or Wufei's – and trying to think over the last few months, to remember if she had done _anything_ that could have led to Solo's death.

"He was willing to die for his honor, Hilde. I'm not asking you… I am, actually. Let's just be honest with each other. We live in a shitty city with shitty people in charge of us who want nothing more than to satisfy their own greed. I'm nobody – I publish an underground paper and I write the fucking obituaries for _The Daily News_. You're just a rookie cop with a dead mentor that every other cop in Sanc hated. On our own, we're helpless. But together, hell, together is the only way we have a chance of making sure that Solo's death is avenged."

"You sound like your paper," Schebeker said after a minute. "Fire and brimstone – you're like Emma Goldman or something."

"Only I'm not an anarchist," Meilin said with a smirk.

"Too bad," Schebeker said. "If you were, you'd fit right in with the L2 crowd."

"Do you know what he was working on? At the end? What could have led to his… death?"

Schebeker scowled.

"No. One night he was called in to interrogate an informant – he called me at home and asked me to come in so I could meet the guy, establish a connection. But when I got to the station he was already in the interrogation room and they wouldn't let me in. A few hours later I ran into Detective Merquise – Zechs Merquise – and he said Solo wouldn't be done for a few more hours and asked me to run the RAP sheets on anyone arrested or convicted of _any_ crime in L2 in the last six months."

"Sounds like busywork."

"That's what I thought at first – especially since Merquise said that Solo was working on busting an L2 prostitution ring."

"Was he?"

Schebeker shrugged.

"Could have been. He played things pretty close to the chest. But he never mentioned it to me. Anyway, I ran those RAP sheets and it was the weirdest thing… over the last six months, the only arrests involving L2 have been outside of the quarter."

"Don't they have their own sort of justice system anyway? They hate cops in L2."

"Yeah," Schebeker agreed. "But sometimes the cops don't give a shit and arrest them anyway – especially for things related to drugs and guns, if any of those start to show up in other quarters. They don't want to infringe on their own businesses, you know."

Meilin nodded.

"But even those… everything stopped six months ago. The last arrest made in L2 was for an assault charge on a guy named Duo Maxwell. Since then… absolutely nothing."

It was beyond strange, Meilin thought, and she wondered why this hadn't caught her attention before.

"No arrests at all?"

"Not _in_ L2. But anyone _from_ L2 who so much as sneezes in the Core or L1 gets picked up almost immediately. The list of arrests… we're talking pages and pages."

"Maybe the drugs and guns are slowing down in L2?" Meilin hazarded.

"Nope," Schebeker said and finally picked up the grilled cheese sandwich in front of her and started to eat it. "If anything, Solo thought things were getting worse. Like they're preparing for something."

 _This city does_ not _need a bloody revolution_ , Meilin mused.

"Duo Maxwell?" She repeated the name and couldn't help but glance at the second envelope in her bag, labeled with that very name. What were the odds of it being a coincidence?

Schebeker nodded.

"I tried to gather some info on him – quietly, mind you – but his RAP sheets pretty much tells it all. Assault charges, theft… arson… he spent most of his youth in juvenile correction facilities and a few years in prison as an adult too."

"How old is he?"

"Hard to say – no papers to speak of, which isn't all that uncommon in L2 anyway – but looking at his mug shot, I'd say mid twenties?"

So he was younger than Solo – how had the two known each other? What would Solo see in a career criminal – a violent one at that – that inspired him to trust him enough to have Meilin deliver the same envelope to him that he wanted his rookie cop to have?

"I'm in," Schebeker said after she finished her lunch. "I don't have Solo's contacts and I'm still a rookie – so I'm not even going to get decent cases for maybe another few months – but whatever I can do to help, I will."

Meilin couldn't help but smile at her.

"Thank you."

Schebeker shrugged.

"I don't need your thanks. I just need you to promise that you'll get shit done. Writing your fancy stories is great – but right now your paper is the only thing connecting those of us who want change. You could do more, to unify us."

It was an excellent point, and Meilin found herself nodding along in agreement.

"Oh," Schebeker said as they stood up and started to walk to the door. "If you want something to look into – try asking about The Circus."

Meilin didn't bother to hide her disgust.

"The brothel?"

Schebeker grinned.

"It's more than just that. Anyway, after they found Solo's body I started to tail Merquise – I know he had to have something to do with Solo's death. Once a week he goes to The Circus, and he isn't the only one. A lot of the younger, high placed guys in Romefeller and OZ seem to be meeting up there at the same time."

"Young men have… needs," Meilin suggested.

"And The Circus will definitely fulfill them. But Treize Khushrenada shows up at the same time too, and you can't tell me that the DA would go there just to hang out with his buddies. Something is up."

* * *

It was still early afternoon when Meilin got off the subway in L2 and walked to The Circus.

By day it was just a massive, gaudily painted striped tent shaped building. The parking lot beside it was empty and the bouncers were nowhere to be seen. But by night, Meilin knew, neon lights illuminated the tent, cars filled the lots, and some of the scariest men in Sanc guarded those doors and kept out any unsavory elements.

Meilin had absolutely no doubt that _she_ would be considered one of those unsavory elements. The Circus was the figurehead of the Barton Foundation's prostitution empire, and Meilin had always known, without having to be told, that a reporter nosing around would not be welcome.

Still, the risk of being thrown out on her ass was far outweighed by the chance to uncover just what Treize Khushrenada, Zechs Merquise, and their merry band of hypocrites were doing here every week.

When she ducked inside through one of the side doors she was grateful to find the huge, open building almost empty.

A few people in coveralls were mopping the floors, the bars were being restocked, and overhead, two aerialists were in the midst of practicing their act.

Meilin had been to The Circus once before – as a guest for Wufei's twenty-first birthday, before they had started to… whatever it was they did.

She had always been enraged by his misogynistic views, but part of her was just curious enough about The Circus to accept the invitation and see it for herself. She had been every bit as disgusted as she had thought she would be, but she had also been mesmerized.

This was a world she would never understand, with rules and currency that were beyond her grasp.

Her presence was noted by the male aerialist and then the female. They slid down the long lengths of silk ropes and dropped nimbly to the group a few feet in front of her.

The male was breathtaking – dressed in only a very brief pair of black briefs but otherwise completely nude and completely… gorgeous. The slight smirk on his face and the crinkle of his green eyes made it obvious that he understood the effect he had on Meilin.

The woman was just as breathtaking, however. She was hardly more covered than the man – just a thong and bra covering her more intimate areas – and her wild riot of red hair was of a shade similar enough to the man's that Meilin wondered if they were related.

"We're not open yet," the man said casually and pulled on a shirt and sweatpants that had been discarded on a chair.

With a sigh, Meilin watched all of his delicious flesh disappear from view.

"I wasn't… I'm not a customer."

"Then stop looking at my brother like he's a piece of meat," the woman suggested.

Meilin flushed and jerked her gaze away from the man's lean hips and back up to his face.

He was smirking openly now.

"Don't worry, she's jealous because the pretty girls always like _me_ better," he murmured and reached out to tuck a loose strand of Meilin's hair behind her ear.

She felt like swooning, actually swooning, at the warm caress of his fingers.

The woman made a noise of disgust.

"Get over yourself, Trowa." She shoved him away from Meilin and stepped close. "What do you want?"

"I, ah, I was hoping I could talk to someone."

"About a job?" Trowa asked, looking over her body. He shrugged.

The woman, however, took her time examining Meilin before smirking.

"What would a sweet little thing like you want to do in a big, _bad_ place like this?" She crooned as she traced Meilin's jaw with one finger.

Never in her life – not even during her most drunken states during college parties – had Meilin felt attracted to another woman. But the way that this woman spoke and touched her – it send a thrill of electricity through her body.

"I'm not. I'm not here for a job," she finally managed.

"Shame." The woman stepped back and, like her brother, pulled on a t-shirt and sweatpants.

"I'm a reporter," she said, at last able to think straight and focus without either of them touching her.

They shared a concerned look before turning back to Meilin.

"Really? Which paper?" The woman asked.

" _The Nightly News_ ," she said without hesitation.

Trowa chuckled and shook his head.

"This is all you, Cathy," he muttered and, still chuckling, walked away.

"I don't understand," Meilin said, forcing herself to turn away from the sight of his amazingly perfect ass and focus on Cathy.

"My brother thinks _The Nightly News_ is a waste of time and effort. I, on the other hand…" Cathy trailed off and smirked at Meilin. "I think you're cute and if you really do work for that paper then maybe you and I could be _friends_."

"Um, I'm not really into –"

"Relax, baby," Cathy said and put a finger on Meilin's lips, "you will be."

"I really just came here to talk to someone about Treize Khushrenada and –"

Cathy's eyes flew open and before Meilin could react she closed the space between them and kissed her.

It took Meilin a moment to pull away from the other woman – she was incredibly strong – but she finally managed to stumble backwards.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" She demanded.

"You might be cute, but you sure as hell aren't smart. You can't just walk into here saying _his_ name and asking questions."

"I didn't think anyone in L3 cared about –"

"You thought wrong," Cathy hissed and looked around the room. "Listen, I don't have time now, but come back, tomorrow morning maybe? Take me out for brunch."

Meilin frowned, but everything about Cathy seemed genuine – if intense and maybe a little crazy.

"Okay," she finally agreed.

Cathy smirked, looking very much like her brother, and kissed Meilin again.

"Now get out of here and stop acting like an idiot. If you cause any trouble for me and my brother I'll kill you."

She said it so sweetly that it barely sounded like a threat, but the steel in her eyes made it clear that it was a promise.

Meilin nodded and made a hasty retreat.

Once back outside, she took a moment to draw in several deep breaths and clear her head.

As she stood there, however, a Sanc Police squad car pulled up.

Catalonia stepped out of the car and regarded Meilin with an amused expression.

"First the police station and now the brothel… at the rate you're going I expect to be running into you at the morgue next."

Catalonia laughed brightly and gave a shake of her bright blonde hair, dismissing Meilin.

She watched as the woman walked inside the club.

"Crazy bitch," she muttered to herself and started to walk back to the train station. She had one more stop to make tonight – and if visiting The Circus had been… unique, visiting L2 would be downright surreal.

* * *

Meilin had only been to L2 twice before – once on a dare in high school from a friend, and another time two years ago with a colleague at work who insisted that the best Mexican food in all of Sanc was at a restaurant in L2.

When she walked into a dive bar off 9th street that night, Meilin focused on keeping her face neutral and her posture rigid.

She knew that intimidation was the main credit these people dealt in, and if she showed the slightest weakness she would be overlooked – or worse.

"You need something, sugar?" The large woman behind the bar counter asked as soon as she walked into the bar.

Meilin swallowed hard and focused her attention on the woman, ignoring the hostile glares from the other nine people in the bar.

"I'm looking for Duo Maxwell."

If anything, the level of tension in the room seemed to increase.

"He ain't into Asian pussy," the woman said dismissively and started to wipe the counter.

"He ain't into pussy at all," one of the men at the bar added and a few cackled at the joke.

Meilin's face flamed as she realized they thought she was a whore.

"Never seen him with an Asian man, neither," another added. "Do you think…?"

"I'm not – I'm not here for _that_ ," Meilin interrupted before they could get started.

"I know a friend of his and –" she had no idea what she had said, but it was clearly the wrong thing.

Her words had half the men in the bar reaching into their pockets and drawing out guns.

 _Fuck me_ , she thought. _I am in so far over my head_.

"Duo ain't the friendly type," the woman behind the counter said.

It was a strange parody of what Schebeker had said earlier in the day, and Meilin wondered if it was some kind of L2 slang.

"No," she agreed, remembering what Solo had told her about him. "But he had one friend, didn't he? Solo Ford?"

A few men exchanged looks and with a groan the youngest stood up.

"I'll go," he muttered and threw a few dollars down on the bar before tossing back the last of his drink.

"Why don't you take a seat over there, sugar?" The bartender suggested and gestured for Meilin to sit down in a booth at the back of the bar.

Still not convinced she wasn't going to be killed any second, Meilin reluctantly followed the direction and sat down.

"You want anything to drink?"

She started to shake her head, but then decided a little liquid courage might be in order.

"Do you have any wine?"

The question unleashed more laughter.

"We got beer, moonshine, and liquor, sugar. Take your pick."

"Um…" Meilin hesitated before asking what brands of beer. "Rum and coke," she said in a rush, hoping that wouldn't inspire more laughter at her expense.

"Uh huh," the bartender said, more judgment that Meilin would have thought possible in her voice.

She sipped at the drink slowly, amazed at just how strong the bartender had mixed it, for the next fifteen minutes.

Finally, just when she had given up all hope, the young man who had left earlier returned, followed by a stranger.

The man returned to his friends at the bar, but the stranger looked around with a scowl on his face before his narrowed eyes settled on Meilin at the back.

Meilin didn't know what he had been expecting, but _this_ certainly wasn't it.

He was dressed head to toe in black – pants, shirt, and jacket – and a long braid of hair rested on one shoulder and draped over his chest almost to his navel.

There was a hard set to his face, but Meilin was willing to bet that when he smiled the man looked extraordinarily beautiful.

He sat down across from her and the mystery of just who he was to Solo was answered when she glimpsed the tattoo on his collarbone.

 _Solo_.

She swallowed hard, feeling a rush of sympathy for the man across from her and for the man buried in the memorial cemetery six miles away.

"Hi," she managed to say.

He arched an eyebrow.

"Hi yourself."

"I, um, I knew Solo." She couldn't help but glance towards the tattoo.

"Well, that's nice."

She had been prepared for his hostility – Solo had told her that he wouldn't be easy to talk to and that he wouldn't be willing to trust her, especially since the only circumstance that could warrant the two of them meeting was his death.

"I also know that you're Jester," she added.

"Jester?" he echoed. "My name is Duo Maxwell."

She rolled her eyes.

"Please. I know you're Jester and Solo was Falcon01. I _know_ your favorite movie is _The Empire Strikes Back_ even though Solo prefers _A New Hope_."

"Preferred," Duo corrected her quietly.

"Preferred," she agreed.

"So you're the one who writes _The Nightly News_?"

She nodded and that sat in silence for a moment as she gathered her thoughts.

"I haven't heard much from you, since his death."

Duo shrugged one shoulder.

"Not much to tell you about."

"Bullshit. Zayeed Winner and Thomas Darlian are dead. Ken Tsubarov is dead. Seven meth labs in the Core have been blown up. Something is going on in L3. How many crimes have taken place in L2? Crimes committed by outsiders?"

He held her gaze.

"I'm taking care of L2," he said after a long moment. "That other shit – not my problem."

"It is!" She insisted with a hiss. "L2 is being _attacked_ by outsiders. That other shit is coming to your front door!"

He scowled and looked away.

She watched as he fiddled with a coaster on the table, tapping his fingers against it.

"I'm not Solo. I'm only good at destroying things, not fixing them."

This much she agreed with. Duo Maxwell was good at killing things, blowing up things, and scaring people. He wasn't a politician, he wasn't an idealist like Solo, and he wasn't nearly as eloquent as Meilin. All the same, she needed him.

"I know."

"Without Solo –"

"I've got his rookie on board."

"Mother fucker." Duo slammed his hand down on the table, startling the men still at the bar. "Keep her out of this – Solo didn't want her involved!"

Meilin shook her head.

"He did. He asked me to give her an envelope if he died. The same envelope he wanted me to give you."

She reached into her bag, stopping momentarily when Duo drew a gun and trained it on her.

Cautiously, she pulled out the envelope and slid it across the table.

He stared at it for a long time, at his name in Solo's handwriting, before he finally put away his gun and opened it.

"You've seen what's inside?" he asked as he flipped through the papers.

She nodded.

"He left one for me too. He wanted the three of us to carry on. He _needed_ us to keep working for change."

Duo snorted in disgust.

"Even from the grave that bastard is telling me what to do," he muttered, but there was no real anger in his voice.

He put the papers back in the envelope and stuffed it into his jacket.

"If you were any kind of smart, you'd pack up your shit and move as far away from Sanc as you could," Duo recommended. "Them killing Solo… it's a sign that they're ready to crush anyone who stands up to them."

"And that's new?"

"Yeah, it is." Duo glanced over at the bar and then leaned in to Meilin. "I made a deal with Catalonia a while back… told him that if he left my people alone I wouldn't touch his."

"This deal… does it go back six, seven months I guess?"

Duo frowned.

"Yeah, until he broke it and killed Solo."

"How do you know it was Catalonia?"

But instead of answering her, Duo just smirked.

"But you've… killed people in that time."

"Not _his_ people. Not his filthy cops. The average crooks – they've always been fair game. Just like anyone who steps outside of L2 loses our protection. But Solo – he was _mine_."

"So this is personal, for you?"

"Personal? Lady, did you even look around when you got off the train? L2 is a fucking warzone. Is it _personal_? You're damn right it is. Romefeller and OZ are destroying my _home_. Them taking Solo – no, that doesn't make it personal for me. But it sure as hell guarantees that Catalonia is going to die a real slow, painful death."

The look in his eyes vividly reminded Meilin of that fact that this man was a very violent criminal.

"What happens now?"

"Now I start to take out Catalonia's entire police force. Not to mention deal with whatever retaliation he throws my way." Duo sighed and shook his head. "I'll give you what intel I can, but I'm not… really into partnerships."

"You and Solo were partners."

"He was the exception that clearly proves the rule," Duo muttered. "I'm not on your side – whatever quest for justice you're on… I'm not buying it. But I'll do what I can to help you."

It was more than she could have hoped for, certainly more that Solo seemed to think Duo would agree to.

"Oh," she had to mention as she stood up. "Do you know anything about a prostitution ring in L2 that Solo might have been investigating before his death?"

Duo frowned.

"No. One of the conditions for him living in L2 was that he kept his job outside. Only time he was allowed to even carry a gun in this quarter was when he was on rotation. He wouldn't have been investigating anything here."

"Are you sure? Maybe he changed his mind and –"

"He was from L2, lady. We _don't_ change our minds."

Meilin nodded, knowing from the look on his face that Duo was a heartbeat away from reneging on their agreement.

"I…" she didn't really know what to say to him. "Have a good night."

His lips twisted into a sneer.

"Yeah, sweet dreams, sugar."

* * *

The subway ride back to L5 gave Meilin plenty of time to think, and while the day had been rough – a _lot_ rougher than she had anticipated – it had been successful, overall.

She had Schebeker on board, Maxwell was now a tentative ally, and Catharine Bloom… Meilin wasn't sure if the woman would kill her or kiss her the next time they met, but at the very least she was a new source of information that Meilin hadn't had access to before.

When she got off the train she turned her cell phone back on, realizing she had left it off all day, ever since she left _The Daily News_. Not surprisingly she had four missed calls from Wufei, two within the last hour, and two text messages from him. The first message asked her to call him back, the second called her an idiot and a vain woman.

She rolled her eyes and put the phone back into her pocket. She started to walk towards the main concourse, but someone bumped into her.

"Sorry," she started to say, but there was a sudden tug at her briefcase and then it was pulled from her grip.

"Hey!" She shouted at the thief and then started to run after him. "Give that back!"

Meilin chased him down one of the annex corridors, originally built years ago in anticipation of L5 growing into a larger quarter, and smirked when the thief realized he had found a dead end.

She dropped into a traditional wushu pose. He looked like he had a good sixty or seventy pounds on her, but Meilin was the youngest of three children – the other two being boys – and she knew how to fight.

Before either of them could react, however, a sharp laugh rang out from behind Meilin.

"How _adorable_!"

Meilin frowned. There was something familiar about that voice.

She turned to see Catalonia and two male police officers blocking her way back to the main concourse.

"Miss Long, isn't it?" Catalonia asked as she stalked forward. "We just keep running into each other today, don't we?"

Meilin looked at the two male cops behind her. They were both huge, hulking figures with sneers on their faces.

"Guess that's what happens when you follow someone," Meilin said.

In her mind she could see no way for this to end well. She spared a glance back at the thief, but he had tossed aside her briefcase and pulled off a hooded sweatshirt to reveal a police uniform underneath.

Catalonia's earlier warning about meeting up again in the morgue suddenly seemed a lot more menacing.

Meilin swallowed hard.

"I haven't done anything wrong," she pointed out as all four cops closed in on her.

"Oh? Haven't you?" Catalonia asked with a sneer. "Cathy told me all about your little _chat_ ," Catalonia said and stepped forward to brush lint from Meilin's shoulder.

Meilin saw a red tinge under her nails – blood. So Cathy probably hadn't told Catalonia about their chat willingly.

"And is free speech illegal in Sanc now?"

Catalonia smiled.

"We're working on pushing the legislation through," she said with a sigh. "But in the meantime, concerned citizens are taking the matter into our own hands."

Very suddenly, Catalonia gripped a handful of Meilin's hair and gave a vicious yank.

Meilin cried out in pain and horror as Catalonia displayed the tendrils of hair she had ripped out.

"You really are a crazy bitch!"

Catalonia only laughed.

"Oh, if only you would last long enough to even _begin_ to understand what I am."

She looked over Meilin's shoulder and nodded.

Before she could react, the thief turned policeman wrapped a gap around her mouth.

"Our first step in limiting free speech," Catalonia assured Meilin. "Would you like to see our second?"

She pulled out a wicked looking knife and, without waiting, plunged it into Meilin's stomach and jerked it upwards.

The pain was sudden and breathtaking. It felt as if her insides were exploding and melting at the same time, and Meilin knew that Catalonia had hit something vital.

The blonde woman reached out and gave Meilin's cheek a friendly pat.

"Step three is making sure you haven't infected anyone else with your ideas. So I'll be paying a few visits to your friends… I'm sure Trainee Schebeker has something to share with me?"

Meilin surged forward, but fell down to her knees in agony.

Catalonia laughed again.

"I think we're done here. See you in the morgue, Miss Long."

Meilin watched as all four police officers walked away, joking with each other and behaving as if they hadn't just murdered someone.

She tried to crawl forwards, towards the flickering light and the main concourse. The pain was unbelievable – so intense and all encompassing that it took every fiber of her being to just stay conscious and _move_.

Amazingly she managed to pull herself along the tiles far enough to look around the corner, to see the bustle of activity and the bright lights.

"Help," she croaked. It was a feeble sound to her own ears, but she couldn't tell if that was because the rush of blood in her head and the pounding of her heart were so loud.

"Help me," she cried out again, louder.

No one even turned in her direction.

At the far end of the concourse, Meilin could see Wufei striding from the trains towards the exit. Of course he had worked late tonight – he worked late _every_ night.

Meilin felt a surge of hope.

"Wufei!"

He heard her – his step faltered and he frowned as he scanned the crowd for the source of his name.

But he didn't see her. No one saw her.

For the first time in her life, Meilin started to cry.

She rolled over onto her side and curled into a ball, fighting the agony of her injury, and cried.

* * *

Up Next:

Trowa engages in a few extracurricular activities.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Chapter 4**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Four

Relena Darlian was giving a speech about unity and peaceful revolution on the subway scroll.

It must have been from earlier in the day – she was standing on a podium at the cemetery, acres of concrete tombstones stretched behind her – and the sun was shining down on her, making her hair look golden and her blue eyes even more intense she asked the people of Sanc to remember her father's legacy and to push for change.

Since it was just before three am, no one on the subway paid much attention to the girl or her tearful plea.

 _Not,_ Trowa thought wryl _y, that anyone present was part of her target audience._

Two homeless men, a few junkies, a sanitation worker, a cheap prostitute from L2, and himself were the only riders on the car this late, and only Trowa spared the scroll the slightest bit of attention.

Darlian fascinated him – part of him found her naiveté and candy-colored reality repellent, but another part envied the fact that she could see the world so plainly, in terms of good and evil, and believe so deeply in her cause.

He had no idea what part of the cemetery she was standing in – likely somewhere near her father's still fresh tombstone – but he wondered if Meilin Long was buried anywhere nearby.

Reading the reporter's obituary in _The Daily News_ only three days after meeting her hadn't shocked Trowa at all – she had been stupid enough to bring down Dorothy Catalonia's wrath on his sister, so surely she was stupid enough to go out and get herself killed.

Cathy, however, still recovering from the brutal beating she had suffered at Catalonia's hands and therefore unable to work, had been devastated. She had genuinely thought the girl could make a difference – had believed it enough to actually resist Catalonia's interrogation for a full hour before giving in when the crazy bitch threatened to cut up her face.

 _Meilin Long_. They hadn't even known her name – it had been Catalonia who screeched it at Cathy during the interrogation and demanded to know how long their association had been going on.

She was clumsy – Catalonia – asking questions that gave more information to Cathy than Cathy actually gave her in answers, and Trowa was grateful that Cathy had had the presence of mind to catalogue everything the woman said to her during the brutal session and report it to him later.

He would have been more grateful if Catalonia had decided to interrogate _him_ instead, so that Cathy could have been spared the pain and humiliation the cop put her through.

The subway pulled to a stop at the Core terminal station and Trowa got to his feet.

The L2 prostitute looked him over, obviously trying to decide whether or not to ply her trade.

"Not your type, ma'am," he said to her.

She looked taken aback by his politeness – but Trowa had no reason to give her grief. She was trying to earn a living, same as he did, she just didn't have his looks or his background.

He made his way through the nearly empty terminal and towards the heart of the Core and the posh apartment where Dorothy Catalonia lived.

When he reached her building, located three blocks from the police headquarters, he flirted his way past the doorman and waited until he was on the elevator and headed up to Catalonia's penthouse suite before he pulled on a baseball cap, tugged low over his eyes, to hide his face from any high placed security cameras.

The doors opened to reveal a marble floored, mirror walled foyer that practically vomited wealth and greed.

As Trowa stepped out of the elevator he tripped over a body and instantly pulled out his gun and surveyed the room.

There were three security cameras and every one of them had had their power cut. The body Trowa had tripped over wasn't the only one – another was slumped against one of the walls of mirrors, a knife buried in his chest.

A third body –

-wasn't dead, Trowa realized too late and had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit with the silver knife thrown his way.

He ducked behind an ornate occasional table, kicking out the base so that the marble top crashed to its side and provided him cover.

Trowa leaned back against the cool surface and searched the mirrors for any sign of the man who had attacked him.

"Fucking hell, keep it down, will you?" The man hissed at Trowa from the other side of the table. "You trying to wake up the neighbors or something?"

In retrospect, Trowa realized that the resounding crash of the marble tabletop hadn't been the stealthiest move. On the other hand, he wasn't willing to die if he could avoid it.

The man's voice bore the accent of the L2 quarter, but unlike the hardened, half starved prostitute on the subway, Trowa felt no compunction to be polite to this man.

"Who are you?" He demanded.

"Who am _I_?" The man echoed and shoved his hat off his head with one hand, "who are _you_?"

Trowa decided to return the gesture and took his own hat off – after all, the security cameras had been eliminated.

He stared at the man's reflection in the mirrored wall and was completely mesmerized.

His features were strong and sharp, with long bangs shadowing the most amazing, indigo colored eyes Trowa had ever seen.

The rest of his body was just as enticing as his face – leanly muscled and dangerous looking in a tight black shirt and loose black cargo pants – and the hint of tattoos on his wrists and under the sleeves on his upper arms marked him as more than a mere street thug.

L2 treated ink like something sacred – you didn't just tattoo your body because you were bored or had the cash to spare, you did it to remember someone or something, or because you had earned the right to do so.

"Damn," the man muttered, "why the hell would you ever try to hide a face like _that_?"

Trowa was used to flattery – used to a captive audience when it came to his looks – but there was something in the other man's eyes that went beyond the usual appreciation. Maybe it was the fact that Trowa, in turn, was so taken with the other man's looks, but there was something about him that Trowa found intriguing.

"What brings you to Chez Catalonia at three in the morning?" The man asked after a moment.

"Just visiting," Trowa said.

The man arched an eyebrow.

Trowa decided that the man clearly wasn't a friend of Catalonia's – why else were the security cameras and the guards dead? – so he decided to tell him the truth.

"I came by to tell her to stay the hell away from my sister and return a little of the… generosity she bestowed on her."

The other man nodded and put away his gun.

"Alright – but you're going to have to wait your turn."

Without waiting for Trowa to put away his own weapon, the man turned his back and went to work trying to unlock the key coded door to Catalonia's apartment.

Trowa decided to keep the weapon out – he didn't really trust the beautiful man from L2 and at the very least he could protect them both while he worked to get them inside – but he stood up from his hiding place and came to stand by the man's right side.

"You got a name?" The man asked Trowa while he worked.

"Yes."

The man spared him a smirk before shaking his head and returning to the lock.

"That should do it," he muttered a moment later and pressed a series of buttons on the keypad.

Sure enough, when he turned the handle the door swung open.

"Like taking candy from a baby," the man grinned and pulled a gun back out.

Wordlessly they stepped into the apartment, Trowa sweeping the right side and the other man clearing the left, and met back up in front of the closed door that had to lead to Catalonia's bedroom.

Trowa reached out and gently turned the knob while the other man held his gun out, ready to take out any opponents the door might reveal.

Catalonia was sitting on the bed, gun in one hand, waiting for them.

"You're looking well Dorothy," the man said and walked in, completely and disturbingly unconcerned with the gun pointed at him.

"Duo Maxwell," she spat. "My father will kill you when he finds out you tried to –" she stopped abruptly and the man, Duo, chuckled.

"Tried to do what, sweetie? Tried to kill you? Because there is no try, only do or do not."

The _Star Wars_ reference made Trowa smirk but went completely over Catalonia's head.

"Then _what_ do you want – and who the hell are you?" She turned, her gun drifting from Duo to focus on Trowa.

Duo took the opportunity to cold cock her with his gun, momentarily stunning her and allowing him to wrest her gun away.

He tossed it to Trowa without looking and sat down on the edge of Catalonia's bed.

"Now, before you got all distracted by the eye candy over there, you asked me what I wanted," Duo said once Catalonia could focus on him again.

"If this is about your threat to kill my father –"

"That wasn't a threat, it was a promise. And it wasn't just for your father. It was for you and every last crooked cop working in Sanc. And you know, Dorothy, you and every one of your crooked minions, that the God of Death always keeps his promises."

Despite his usual detachment from other people's problems, Trowa found himself curious about who Duo Maxwell was and what issues he had with the Sanc police force. He was clearly from L2, which would explain a general hatred for law enforcement, but definitely didn't give him license to have a vendetta against _all_ the cops in Sanc.

Catalonia rolled her eyes.

"All of this just for the death of your favorite pig?" She asked in a bored tone. "Honestly, you queers are all _so_ melodramatic it makes me –"

Duo backhanded her hard enough that her lips split under the force of the blow.

"I need information," Duo said after a moment, his voice and face neutral.

Catalonia spit in his direction.

"You think that with Ford gone _I'm_ your best option for information on my father?" She laughed. "You really are as dumb as you look."

Duo rolled his eyes and pulled out a knife.

"I'm going to kill you," he assured her, "but only after I've made you and your Dad feel every ounce of fear and despair that you've unleashed on this city for the last fifteen years. In the meantime, you can cooperate with me or I can practice my decorating skills on your forehead."

The two spent a long, tense moment glaring at each other.

"What do you want to know?" Catalonia finally demanded.

Duo smiled, the toothy, dark smile of a predator scenting blood.

"There's my girl." He reached into one of his many pants pockets and pulled out a folded photograph. He passed it to Catalonia. "You recognize that tattoo?"

She unfolded it and frowned.

"No."

Duo pressed the knife against the back of one ankle.

"You sure?"

She nodded jerkily when Duo pressed hard enough to draw blood.

"Yes," she hissed.

"Alright." Duo took the photo back. "Next question – who the hell has been blowing up all your meth labs in the Core recently?"

Trowa was very interested in hearing her answer to this as well.

"We don't know," Catalonia ground out. "The amount of explosives used are perfect – never enough to leave a residue we could analyze, never too little so that we could investigate the crime scene for prints."

"How long has it been going on?"

"For the last eight months. It's been getting worse, over the last two. We're losing at least one lab a week now."

Duo whistled.

"Damn. At this rate you crooks might have to get off your asses and do some actual investigation work! I thought Zechs Merquise was working to protect those labs."

Dorothy growled.

"Merquise is _this_ close to the same fate Solo Ford met – he fights my father at every turn and he only has a job in this precinct because of Treize Khushrenada."

Trowa hadn't intended on doing anything tonight but threatening to kill Catalonia and giving her a few bruises to remember him by. It was beyond lucky that he had run into a criminal hell bent on pumping Catalonia for information, however, and he intended to put all of it to good use.

"Uh huh. One last thing, then I let my buddy take over. What do you know about the death of Meilin Long?"

Catalonia arched an eyebrow.

"Who?" Her voice was sickly sweet.

Duo jerked the knife across the back of her calf in a swift, deep slash. It wasn't a life threatening injury – he probably hadn't even cut deep enough to touch the muscle – but Trowa knew from experience that an injury there would hurt for weeks, if not months.

"Are you hard of hearing?" Duo asked in the same tone. "What happened to Meilin Long?"

"What always happens to nosey little girls," Catalonia hissed.

Duo nodded, as if he had expected that answer.

"The same thing that's going to happen to Ford's trainee – Schebeker. There's no telling what –"

Duo's knife was suddenly pressed against Catalonia's throat, and there was a wild look in his eyes.

"You will not touch a hair on her head," Duo told her. "She doesn't know shit about Solo or me –but she's from L2. If you kill her it won't just be _me_ you'll have to worry about coming for you in the night. It'll be my entire quarter. You understand?"

"Yes," Catalonia managed to say.

Duo nodded and eased back. He smiled at her.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" He turned to Trowa. "Your turn."

Duo was definitely a tough act to follow, so Trowa decided to go an entirely different route.

He took aim with Catalonia's gun and unloaded the entire clip into the mattress around her body.

"If you come near Catharine Bloom again I'll put the next clip into your head," he said and tossed the gun back to her.

"Oh, almost forget." Duo picked up the laptop computer on Catalonia's nightstand and smacked it against her head.

The woman slumped over, unconscious and bleeding.

Duo tossed the computer back on the nightstand, shoved his hands into his pockets, and casually walked out of the room.

Trowa followed him.

The elevator ride down, complete with horribly mangled background music, was filled with enough tension that Duo actually started to laugh.

After a moment, Trowa allowed himself to smile at the infectious sound.

"Damn, dude, did you _see_ her face when you shot up her bed? That was a nice touch, bro – you've got style, that's for sure."

Trowa shrugged.

"You're pretty ruthlessly creative, yourself," he told the slightly shorter man.

"Ruthlessly creative? I like that."

They got out on the ground floor and Duo walked up to the doorman and slipped him a wad of bills and shook his hand.

"Tell your sister I said hi," Duo said to the man as they left.

Once back on the street Trowa was torn between two conflicting urges – the first being to lure Duo to somewhere dark and isolated so he could eliminate him and retain some sense of anonymity; but the other, stronger urge was the one Trowa ultimately gave in to.

He kept pace with Duo as the other man walked back to the Core train terminal, but just as they neared it, Trowa pulled him into a side alley and pushed him back against the wall.

Duo looked up at him, a warning in his eyes, and Trowa felt the sharp, cold press of a blade against his side.

He couldn't help but smirk before leaning down and kissing Duo.

The other man was still for a moment, tension practically radiating from his body, but when Trowa traced his tongue over Duo's full lips the other man groaned and opened his mouth, inviting Trowa to taste him.

Duo was dark and primal and hot, and even though he let Trowa control the kiss it was clear that he had the hunger and power to match Trowa.

Eventually the need for air forced Trowa to pull away.

"That was a hell of a lot better than you trying to kill me," Duo muttered.

Trowa wondered if he was that transparent or if Duo was simply that cynical.

He eased away from the knife Duo still had pressed against his side.

"It was nice meeting you," Trowa told him.

"You too," Duo replied with a chuckle. "We should do this again sometime."

Trowa shrugged.

"Maybe."

* * *

It was after four when Trowa made it to the ammunitions warehouse in L1. There were two hours still before sunrise, but being out this late made Trowa feel hurried.

He set his explosive charges quickly, working around the change of guards and their erratic patrols, and had just managed to clear the area and set up the remote detonator when, for the second time that day, his solo mission was interrupted.

Trowa was crouched out of sight behind a few steel c-tainers, his attention focused on the ammunitions warehouse, when the cold, hard barrel of a gun pressed into the base of his skull.

"Turn around, slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Trowa did as instructed, bitterly thinking that now, of all times, just wasn't the right time for a Sanc cop to start doing their job.

But it wasn't a cop holding him hostage.

The man on the other end of the gun was dressed in black from head to foot – it seemed to be the attire of choice this evening for anyone trying to get the drop on Trowa – with unruly brown hair and dark blue eyes that seemed to look past Trowa's face and into his mind, they were so intense. His features were exotic and set in an unreadable expression.

 _Perhaps he was one of the guards patrolling the warehous_ e, Trowa mused, but he seemed far too competent and far too deadly.

The blue gaze flicked to the detonation switch in Trowa's hand and the man frowned.

"You're blowing up the warehouse?"

"Unless you kill me first."

"Who do you work for?"

Trowa regarded the other man with amusement.

"It doesn't matter," the man decided after a moment. "What explosives did you use?"

"C-4, wires manufactured in L2, computer chips in L5, no traceable packaging."

The man nodded thoughtfully.

"Where did you plant them?"

It felt like Trowa was being given a pop quiz.

"One charge for each of the six main pillars holding the roof. Eight more charges planted in central locations around the ammunition."

"Good. That should work." The man waved his gun towards the detonator. "Go ahead."

Trowa did as instructed, and a moment later the night sky was illuminated by fire and billowing smoke.

"Nice work," the man complimented Trowa. "We should get out of here before the cops arrive."

Trowa nodded in silent agreement and shoved the detonator into one of his pockets.

"Who do _you_ work for?" He thought to ask when the other man turned away.

"IT," the man said with a smirk and then vanished.

"IT?" Trowa echoed. Surely the man hadn't meant the City Information Technology Department?

* * *

It was after dawn before he made it back to the trailer he shared with Cathy, but despite the bright light flooding through the blinds in his bedroom Trowa slept like the dead for six hours.

He didn't dream often – woke up remembering his dreams with even less frequency – but when Cathy shook him awake at noon she interrupted an incredibly graphic fantasy of Trowa, Duo, and that IT guy from L1.

"Busy night?" Cathy asked when he glared up at her.

"Yes," he muttered and rolled over onto his stomach and stretched.

He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had fantasized about anyone, consciously or while asleep, and he found it mildly disturbing that two chance encounters could force their way so quickly and deeply into his psyche.

"Are you injured?"

Cathy didn't approve of Trowa's 'extracurricular activities' any more than he approved of her unwavering faith in the city of Sanc reforming itself without violence, and it was always a sensitive subject to discuss.

"No," he was able to tell her the truth this time and was grateful for that.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, looking over the bruises and cuts on her face that just now, a week after Catalonia's interrogation, were starting to fade.

"Still not pretty enough to be seen by paying customers," Cathy muttered, "but in another week? I should be fine."

"Fine," Trowa echoed. It was a word he and Cathy used so often it barely had meaning anymore – if a client was particularly rough with one of them they assured the other they were fine; if one of them woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and drowning in memories of fire they assured the other they were fine; if a psychotic police officer beat one of them badly enough to leave scars they assured the other they were fine.

Cathy sighed.

"Deikim wants to see you."

"Of course he does," Trowa muttered and finally got out of bed. "Did he say when?"

"As soon as you've showered and had something to eat," Cathy instructed.

Trowa very seriously doubted that Deikim had added those two conditions – likely he had called while Trowa slept and Cathy had snapped at him to leave her brother alone until he could clean himself up.

As he walked towards the bathroom Trowa leaned down and kissed the top of Cathy's head.

"I love you," he told her. _And Catalonia won't hurt you again_ , he added for himself.

"Obviously," Cathy said and gave his arm a light punch.

He smiled, allowing her to keep the mood light, and ruffled her hair.

She slapped his hand away.

"Ugh. Leave me alone and go shower. You stink."

Trowa lifted one arm and inhaled deeply.

"I don't stink. I smell manly and –" Cathy threw a pillow at his head and Trowa retreated into the bathroom and closed the door to avoid a continued onslaught.

* * *

Deikim Barton's office was on the third floor of The Circus. From both the inside and outside the giant structure looked to only have two floors, but for the initiated, a series of stairwells and locked doors led to an entire level high above the rest of the club from which Deikim supervised his empire.

Trowa had reluctantly been initiated into that select few of Deikim's trusted employees nine years ago, at the age of fourteen, when one of the pimps had threatened to punish Cathy for not servicing a client to his total satisfaction and Trowa had beaten the man badly enough that he had to be hospitalized.

Far from punishing Trowa for the fight, Deikim had decided that it showed the kind of initiative and determination that he liked to cultivate.

As with most things involving Trowa, Cathy didn't approve. She despised Deikim's private army of mercenaries, spies, and whores who ran the L3 underworld and helped Barton keep a foothold in Sanc politics.

The fact that Trowa hated it just as much as she did was hardly a factor in Trowa's recruitment – Deikim had pointed out that he could sentence Cathy to a very short, very painful career as a star in one of the snuff films that were among the most popular of the pornographies Barton produced.

So, nine years after Deikim had first put a gun in Trowa's hand and told him to kill a Sanc City Councilmen or his sister would die, Trowa was one of the man's most trusted soldiers.

When he entered Deikim's office the man was in the middle of being pleasured by some young, blonde girl that Trowa hadn't seen before.

Deikim looked up and waved him over.

Fighting back disgust, Trowa kept his gaze focused on the wall beyond Deikim's lust filled eyes and tried to ignore the sounds being generated by the two.

"Deeper," Deikim growled at the girl before rolling his eyes and looking at Trowa. "Maybe you should give her a few pointers," he said with a chuckle. "No one's ever complained about you not being able to deep throat."

"If you want me to," Trowa said, very proud of how neutral and detached his voice came out.

"So, your mission last night – I saw the news scroll this morning. The warehouse was completely destroyed."

Trowa inclined his head in agreement – a mistake since it lowered his gaze to the girl's desperate, bulging brown eyes as she worked furiously to bring Deikim to orgasm.

He snapped his gaze back up to the wall as quickly as possible.

"Took you long enough – Frank told me you didn't go back to your trailer until just after dawn."

Trowa clenched his jaw. He'd been paying Frank off for over a year now to keep the specifics of his comings and goings from Deikim. Last week, Frank had insisted on a few sexual favors in addition to an increase in his fee. Trowa had told him to go to hell – and this was clearly Frank's response.

"I took the scenic route there and back – ever since the Romefeller meth labs have been targeted the cops have had heavier surveillance on the subway."

Deikim nodded in acceptance of the excuse and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he shuddered in pleasure.

The girl stumbled to her feet and wiped at her mouth and Trowa actually tasted bile at the back of his throat.

 _Of course_ , he thought bitterly, _the one morning I dream about enjoying sex I have to witness_ this _._

Deikim grabbed a handful of the girl's hair, pulling her back down to her knees, and used it to clean off his stomach.

"You're done here," Deikim told her and Trowa looked away when her eyes met his.

He wouldn't be seeing her again – any girl tasked with giving Deikim his afternoon orgasm was typically slated to feature in a snuff film within the next two days – and he had learned not to even regard these girls as humans anymore. It was better that way.

"So, Khushrenada's little club is meeting here again tonight, you will, of course, see to Zechs Merquise's needs."

As if Trowa could forget.

For the past month, every time Khushrenada and his gang visited The Circus Trowa had been tasked with entertaining Merquise at the club – his services paid for by Khushrenada – and then going home with the man afterwards, at Deikim's direction, and waiting until he was asleep before checking his computer files and snooping through his apartment for anything useful.

"Khushrenada is still concerned that Merquise isn't on the level," Deikim continued, "and you've given us precious little intelligence to prove otherwise."

And after Trowa's side trip last night to Catalonia's house it was clear that he wouldn't find any intel – if Catalonia and Duo's conversation was anything to go by.

"His apartment is clean," Trowa said patiently, "and whatever encryption he has on his computer is top of the line. I can't get past it."

An image of the IT man flashed through Trowa's mind.

"Then get him to _talk_. You've been taught how to be persuasive."

"He isn't very chatty during sex," Trowa argued, "and he isn't likely to confide in a mere whore."

Deikim arched one eyebrow at the attitude in Trowa's voice but instead of punishing him for it he stroked his goatee thoughtfully.

"Then perhaps you need to become more than a mere whore," he finally said.

Deikim often loaned out his prostitutes for long term, often permanent – until they were killed – arrangements. Trowa had always been too valuable a commodity for Deikim to put him in such a position, but Zechs Merquise was enough of a thorn in both Deikim and Khushrenada's sides that there was every chance that was what was being hinted at.

"Tonight, when you're alone with him, convince him to get you a job with him, at the police station."

It took Trowa a moment to recover from his shock at the suggestion and school his features back into a neutral expression.

"You want me to become a cop?"

Deikim shrugged.

"Or a secretary – hell, a janitor even. Whatever gets you closer to him and gets _us_ intel."

Trowa doubted that Zechs would trust a secretary or janitor any more than he trusted a whore. But another cop… Trowa quickly decided that it was the quickest way to gain Zechs' trust. The man was practically starving for comradeship, if his encouragement of Trowa's insolence was anything to go by.

"I'll need money for an apartment in the Core," Trowa told Deikim.

The other man arched an eyebrow in amusement.

"I can't live in a trailer in L3 if I'm going to become a trusted member of Sanc's police force," Trowa pointed out. "And it will allow me to have more access to Zechs."

"Your sister stays here. She can rework your act into a solo performance until we don't need you on this."

Implied was the threat that if Trowa stepped out of line, no one would be here to protect Cathy.

"Of course," Trowa agreed.

* * *

After their first night together, when Trowa had cleaned out Zechs' apartment of any cash, the blonde man had started leaving a pile of bills in plain sight on his kitchen table.

It had amused Trowa enough that he almost thought about not taking the money – but common sense won out and every time he stayed he pocketed the cash.

Zechs was in a strange mood that night – the meeting with Khushrenada and his crew had focused around the upcoming election and how easy it would be to win with both Winner and Darlian out of the picture – and there was a certain level of desperation to his actions that made Trowa almost pity him.

After several rounds of sex – enough that Trowa judged Zechs to have worked through his dark mood and was nearly sated for the night– he laid down between the other man's legs and rested his chin on his stomach.

"You talk in your sleep," he informed the other man.

Zechs frowned but reached out and ran one hand through Trowa's bangs, pushing them to his forehead and exposing his entire face for perusal.

"Do I?"

"Names, mostly," Trowa told him and he could feel Zechs' entire body tense.

"Other lovers for you to be jealous of?" Zechs tried to joke.

Trowa smirked.

"There's no reason for _me_ to be jealous of anything." He placed a wet, open mouth kiss on Zech's navel before biting down on the flesh none too gently. "Whores aren't allowed to be jealous."

Zechs' frown became a full fledged scowl.

"If you were allowed?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Trowa kissed and nipped his way up Zechs chest before taking one of his flat brown nipples between his teeth and teasing it.

Zechs groaned at the contact – he had the most sensitive nipples Trowa had ever encountered on another man – and pulled Trowa up for a kiss.

"How the hell have you managed to keep that attitude intact under Deikim's authority?" Zechs mused.

Trowa snorted.

"Because I don't show it to him."

"Just clients?"

"Just clients I like," Trowa corrected, and it wasn't even a lie.

The first night that Khushrenada had arranged for his group to be privately entertained, Deikim had assigned Trowa the task of enticing Zechs and gaining his trust. Trowa had read the dossier on Zechs – pathetically vague and missing his entire childhood history – and immediately decided that playing the docile submissive would get him nowhere with the other man.

So he had decided to walk the very thin line between openly hostile and intriguingly insolent. Trowa was able to keep Zechs off balance and keep him interested, but somewhat distressingly, he was also shown a side of the police officer that attracted him.

Not sexually – Trowa had learned the hard way, years ago, that physical desire for a client always ended badly and he had worked hard to distance himself from any attraction he might have for the less reprehensible clients he serviced – but there was something about his personality and about the moral struggle Zechs seemed to be engaged in that made it difficult for Trowa to view him as just another job.

"If you weren't a whore," Zechs said to Trowa after they pulled apart, "what would you be?"

It wasn't a question anyone had ever asked Trowa.

Cathy, of course, didn't have to ask him that question to know the answer – if their lives hadn't been completely destroyed and if they hadn't been forced into the service of the man responsible for the murder of their family then both of them would still be aerialists performing for the circus. The real circus, not the abomination that Deikim ran on the site that had once been home to the fairgrounds in Sanc.

Trowa found himself struggling for a moment to fight back his anger and memories.

"I guess I'd be a cop," he finally managed to say with a saucy grin. "So I could look at your fine ass in a uniform all day."

Zechs snorted a laugh and ran one hand down Trowa's back to playfully slap his own ass.

"You a cop…"

Just as Trowa had predicted, there was the tiniest hint of hope in Zechs' voice as he repeated the words.

"I'm smart," Trowa informed him, "very _agile_ ," he continued suggestively.

Zechs frowned.

"You'd have to go to the Academy for six months."

"I've always wanted to go to school."

"You've never been to school?"

Trowa gave him a patronizing look.

"I'm a whore, Zechs. I was _raised_ by Barton to be good at two things: taking a cock up my ass and putting mine in someone else's. You don't need to go to school for that."

"What about the acrobatics?"

"Natural talent," Trowa said defensively.

"I could write you a recommendation," Zechs said after a moment. He shifted to look Trowa in the eyes. "You really want to be a cop? It's dangerous, in Sanc."

"Because there's a huge chance of me living to old age in my current line of work," Trowa pointed out.

"You'd actually have to behave yourself – be polite to me in front of others," Zechs told him.

"I'm a very good actor," Trowa assured him and kissed him again. "Another of my natural talents."

"You've got more than a few of them," Zechs added and guided Trowa's head towards his growing erection.

Trowa obliged him and took Zechs' impressive length in his mouth.

"God, you suck cock like you were born to do it," Zechs moaned a moment later, his hands buried in Trowa's hair as he thrust his hips upwards to meet Trowa's mouth.

He almost gagged, remembering Deikim's suggestion that he give lessons to the soon-to-be-dead girl sucking him off.

After he finished him off, Zechs rolled over onto his side and encouraged Trowa to move so that his back was against the larger man's front. Zechs rested one hand on Trowa's hip, idly stroking his flesh.

They lay in silence for almost an hour, Trowa waiting for Zechs' heart beat and breathing to even out and signal that he had finally fallen asleep.

"Whose names?" Zechs asked against Trowa's neck. "Whose names do I say at night?"

Instinct told Trowa that the truth – _Mother, Father, Relena_ – would get him killed, so he decided to fish for information that might be useful.

"Solo… Solo Ford? You mention his name pretty frequently." Trowa paused when Zechs tensed up again. " _Should_ I be jealous?" he joked. When Zechs continued to remain silent, Trowa decided to push farther. "Who is he, Zechs?"

"Who _was_ he," Zechs corrected quietly.

"Who _was_ he?" Trowa dutifully repeated.

"A cop I worked with."

That much Trowa had already assumed.

"How did he become a was?"

"A knife through his jugular, carotid, and trachea."

Catalonia had more or less admitted that Solo was killed by another cop.

"Your knife?" Trowa asked.

"No," Zechs said and the hand resting on Trowa's hip gripped him hard enough to bruise. "But it might as well have been."

"What about the God of Death?" Trowa asked. Unlike Solo Ford's name, Zechs actually _had_ mumbled something about the God of Death in his sleep one night. Since Duo had given the name to Catalonia last night, he was fairly confident that it wasn't linked to Zechs' family.

"Him too?" Zechs laughed bitterly. "I need to learn to keep my mouth shut."

Trowa rolled over onto his back and looked at Zechs.

"Because I'm going to tell anyone the things you say to me?"

Zechs held his gaze for a long moment, searching and judging, but Trowa projected as much affection as he dared into his gaze.

"The night of Ford's death I went to his apartment and I found a naked man tied to his bed. He was covered in tattoos and was… breathtaking. The strangest indigo eyes and –"

Trowa cleared his throat.

"Are you _trying_ to make me jealous?" he asked, but he was grateful for the description and the confirmation that Zechs had met Duo previously.

"No," Zechs assured him. "Besides, _you_ asked. Anyway, the man was Ford's lover –he even had his name tattooed on his collarbone. He figured out that Ford was dead and, God this is humiliating, he convinced me to give him a glass of water and used it to break my nose and cut his hands free. Before he left, he told me that he was the God of Death."

"This happened the night we first met," Trowa guessed, remembering the cut across the bridge of Zechs' nose and the haggard look on his face.

"Yes." Zechs drew in a deep breath. "Anyone else's name?"

"Mine, a few times. For obvious reasons."

Zechs rolled his eyes.

"It's a good thing you look like you do, otherwise your mouth would get you into a hell of a lot of trouble."

Trowa moved out of Zechs embrace and stood up from the bed.

"I'm thirsty – want me to bring you a glass of water?"

Zechs glared at him and Trowa smirked before walking out of the room and into the kitchen.

He poured himself a glass of water and sipped on it slowly and processed what he had just learned.

Trowa had a hard time visualizing the smart-mouthed, violent man from last night naked and tied up on anyone's bed – let alone a cop's – but he had absolutely no difficulty picturing Duo smashing Zechs' nose with a glass and managing to escape. It went a long way to explaining his recklessness when he had a gun pointed at him – clearly he thought he could get out of any situation and simply wasn't easily intimidated.

After rinsing out the glass and putting it on the drying rack, Trowa started back towards the bedroom.

His eyes landed on the pile of cash Zechs had left out.

Trowa hesitated only a moment before taking the money and putting it in the freezer.

* * *

Up Next:

Recently orphaned, billionaire playboy Quatre Winner has a very rude awakening…

* * *

**Chapter 5: Chapter 5**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

A/N #3: If you think that Quatre in this chapter is a bit out of character, let me direct you to his period of craziness after his father's death and the Zero system… that's what inspired my choice here, that and an excessive fondness for RDJ's Iron Man. Don't worry, it's not permanent.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Five

He still had trouble mastering the balance between buzzed and blitzed out of his mind.

Six months of dedicated practice meant that Quatre could pass for sober even when he was ready to black out from doing ten back to back shots of Jaeger.

But unless he found that precious balance… if he was just buzzed then it was too easy to remember his father and to hear the disappointment in people's voices; if he was full on smashed then it was _far_ too easy to hear the shrill disdain in Relena's voice whenever she spoke to him.

He had hoped that his drinking would drive her away and encourage her _not_ to speak to him – but she was just as stubborn as he was and seemed hell bent on sticking by his side during this 'dark time,' as she called it.

Even before their fathers' deaths Quatre had thought he and Relena were a poor match, but their engagement had boosted stock revenue for Winner Inc. eight percent and given the illusion of Relena's father having an 'in' with the L4 elite.

The morning after Quatre buried his father – two days after Relena's father's funeral – he had called her to break off their engagement. There didn't seem any point to it, he had started to say only to have her interrupt him in a grief stricken voice and tell him that they _must_ stick together, for the memory of their fathers and for the future of Sanc.

As soon as Quatre hung up the phone he found a bottle of Scotch and tried to drown himself in it.

 _Of course_ Relena wouldn't let him escape her pretty pink clutches that easily. _Of course_ , even after Zayeed's death, Quatre would still be constrained to follow his every demand. _Of course_ the city of Sanc expected its two golden children to hold up their heads and bravely suffer through.

 _Fuck it_ , had been Quatre's motto ever since he had read the initial coroner's report. The Sanc police claimed that his father had been killed in a mugging gone wrong – but Zayeed must have been mugged by a blind man with a clairvoyant sense of aim: he had been shot directly in the heart and while his wallet was empty none of his jewelry – his rings, the golden locket with a curl of Quatre's mother's hair inside, even his nearly three million dollar Rolex watch – had been taken.

It was obviously a cover-up and it was just as obvious that Zayeed had been enough of a political threat in the mayoral election that OZ and Romefeller decided to take him out of the running altogether.

Quatre had spent _years_ telling his father to watch his back and tone down his pacifist rhetoric and his demands that corruption be eliminated from Sanc. But Zayeed had never listened to him – he had always viewed Quatre as a disappointment: instead of being a politician like Zayeed or a doctor like most of his sisters, Quatre had a natural gift for making money and he used it to ensure that Winner Inc., even during the worst recession Sanc had ever experienced, continued to show record profits every quarter.

Being a businessman was, in Zayeed's eyes, something for a minion to do. The Winners made money because they had to, but the real goal of any member of the family was to change the world and make it a better place.

Quatre's goal had been to make enough money to buy out as many Romefeller and Barton controlled businesses as he could and try to take over Sanc by financial force.

None of that mattered now, of course. Zayeed was dead and Thomas Darlian – his closest friend and political partner – was just as dead. There was no one to take over, even if Quatre did manage to succeed.

So he drank, trying to drown out the knowledge that he had failed and that Sanc's last two chances for redemption were buried in marble mausoleums littered with gaudy, plastic flowers.

* * *

It was important to Relena that they keep up appearances. No matter how disgusted she might be with Quatre's slide into drunken oblivion, she never gave up on him and insisted that he be her escort for all public events.

He had tried, early on, to tell her no. But she had cried.

Growing up with a dozen sisters had taught Quatre many lessons, but more than that, it had instilled in him an absolute terror of women crying. He would do _anything_ to make a woman stop crying – even if it meant putting on a tux and waltzing all night with Relena for a damned charity fundraiser.

The night of Relena's twenty-fifth birthday was no exception: she insisted that he be her date, insisted that he wear a pink boutonniere and a pink bow tie with his black tuxedo, just so they could match. Just so, in case someone without the mental capacity to put two and two together was watching, it would be obvious that Quatre belonged to her.

It was incredibly petty of him, but he showed up to the party at her near palatial town home half an hour late, already drunk, and without a birthday present for her.

She took it all in stride – her damned impenetrable mask of innocence intact as she steered him away from the champagne and dragged him from prominent guest to prominent guest.

The favorite topic of conversation seemed to be offering condolences on their fathers' deaths and digging for gossip on just how tragic life was for them now.

Relena rose above it, holding her chin at that arrogant angle that made Quatre want to punch her, and insisting that things were difficult, but together – she would lean over and kiss Quatre on the cheek – they were managing.

Quatre, on the other hand, played to their absolute lowest expectations.

He managed to sniffle a bit and went so far as to bury his head in Relena's pink organza covered cleavage while he mumbled something about it just being too hard to get out of bed every day… how easy it was to think about ending his misery and joining his father in the afterlife.

It eventually forced Relena to knee him in the groin and pull him into a side corridor.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" She shrieked once they were alone.

" _There's_ Relena Darlian," Quatre said with a chuckle. "That's the girl I grew up with – shrill and bossy and so damned –"

"Don't _even_ start, Quatre," she snapped. "I'm trying – at least I'm doing that much! Who cares that I'm faking it, at least I'm not a disappointment to my name! I'm glad your father is dead! He always suspected you were useless, but at least he doesn't have to live with the proof of it!"

As soon as she said the words she clapped both hands over her mouth and started to shake her head.

"No, I'm so sorry, Quatre. I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. I –" she reached out to him but he shook off her pink gloved hands.

"By all means, let it out," he gestured for her to continue. "Do it now in private so that your adoring fans don't see you crack, so they don't see the real you."

Tears started to form in her eyes.

"Don't you _dare_ cry!" He shouted at her, perhaps the first time he had ever yelled at a woman who wasn't one of his sisters trying to paint his toenails.

She sniffed back the tears.

"I won't," she promised. "I'm sorry."

"They're just playing with you, Relena! Don't you see that no one out there even _cares_ that the only two decent men in Sanc are _dead_? This is all just a game to them – we're just their damned entertainment! Romefeller was never going to let either of our fathers win the election, you have to know that. Change will _never_ come to Sanc – no matter how many speeches you give about loving each other or how many fucking pink balloons you release in the sky or –"

"I know that!" She shouted back at him – and from the look on her face Quatre was positive it was the _only_ time Relena had ever shouted at anyone in her life. "I know it," she continued in a softer but no less fierce voice.

"Then why do you –"

"Because I'm not going to let them win, Quatre. I can't. _You_ can't." She sighed and shook her head. "I know you never believed in it – never believed in pacifism or the ability for man to change simply by believing in each other – but you used to believe that things could be better. I know you did!"

"Yeah, well, beliefs have a way of dying here in Sanc," he muttered.

"How dare you give up this easily! You _owe_ Zayeed the courtesy of at least trying to –"

"I owe him _nothing_ ," Quatre interrupted her angrily. "I tried to make him see reason – I tried to make _all_ of you understand that you were going to get yourselves killed and none of you _listened_. I don't owe Zayeed anything, I don't owe _you_ anything, and I sure as hell don't owe the people out there anything."

"You're wrong," Relena insisted. "You owe yourself the chance to get justice for their deaths."

Quatre glared at her.

"You are un-fucking believable," he muttered. "Just let me go, Relena. Just let me _go_."

"No." She held her chin back at that angle he hated. "I will save you, Quatre Winner. Regardless of what you want."

Without another word she swept past him and rejoined her party.

He debated just finding a side door and leaving, but ultimately decided that he had made the effort to get here – had actually shaved for this – and he would be damned if he didn't at least have a few drinks before he stumbled back to his empty home and gave in to the nightmares of having his father's blood on his own hands.

* * *

He had moved on from the champagne after finding a servant willing to risk Relena's wrath and keep him supplied with her father's best bourbon, when Treize Khushrenada decided to speak to him.

The urbane DA was the public face of Romefeller – prettier, younger, and more charismatic than Duke Dermail – and Quatre could happily rip his throat out just for daring to show up here, let alone having the lack of self-preservation to actually try to have a conversation with Quatre.

"I haven't yet had the opportunity to offer my condolence on your father's passing," Khushrenada opened.

Quatre tossed back the last of the bourbon and passed his empty glass off to a waiter. He furiously crunched on the ice in his mouth, hoping that his silence would make the ever polite Khushrenada leave him alone.

"Then again, with the state you've been in, I doubt it means much in any case."

There was the hint of a smug smirk on the corners of Khushrenada's mouth.

"The state I've been in?" Quatre couldn't help but rise to the bait.

"You smell like a distillery," Khushrenada said with a disdainful sniff. "And poor Relena… trying her best to write off your behavior as a charming, eccentric devotion to your dearly departed father. But you and I both know this has nothing to do with that… you hardly respected the man, let alone loved him. All of your life he was just a pillar standing in your way, wasn't he?"

Khushrenada smirked openly now.

"Honestly, you should be thanking me. With him out of the picture you're free to run Winner Inc. however you see fit. I must say, I'm impressed that you can still function well enough to keep turning a profit. Shame you didn't accept my offer to become City Treasurer after Ken's tragic death."

Quatre snorted.

The news scrolls had insisted that Tsubarov had died at home, of a heart attack, in the arms of his wife. Quatre's informants had quickly uncovered the truth: Tsubarov had been assassinated while visiting his favorite brothel.

"But then, your father didn't really give you the chance to consider it, did he?"

That much, at least, was true. When Khushrenada had first approached him Quatre had been hesitant, but intrigued. Quatre had never openly supported his father's pacifism, but he had also never shown Romefeller even a modicum of respect. If Khushrenada was inviting him into the bastion of power then perhaps things _could_ change in Sanc.

Zayeed had immediately demanded that he turn down the offer – no son of his would ever work for a murderer like Dermail or accept the handouts of a smug bastard like Khushrenada.

"Shame you didn't have him killed sooner then, isn't it?" Quatre suggested.

Khushrenada arched one eyebrow, clearly unprepared for Quatre to fight back.

"Well, in any case, I'm delighted that your sister Iria is now a member of the City Council. Such a lovely woman and so… spirited. It's good to know that not every Winner is so easily broken. _She_ might actually provide some amusement before I –"

With an outraged snarl Quatre drew back his fist and punched Khushrenada squarely in the jaw, snapping his head around and making him stumble backwards a few feet.

"Son of a bitch," Quatre muttered and cradled his hand. He'd never actually punched someone before and he was pretty confident he might have broken something.

Khushrenada regarded him through narrowed eyes.

"You just assaulted a public official… in front of a ballroom of witnesses," the older man said mildly. He worked his jaw a few times, wincing in pain and making Quatre smirk in triumph.

"If you so much as _look_ at my sister then I'll kill you in front of a ballroom of witnesses," Quatre promised him.

"Sir, is there a problem?"

Quatre turned to see Khushrenada's unctuous assistant, Midii Une, appear at his side.

"Yes. Call the police," he said in a bored tone. "I'm afraid young Mr. Winner has disturbed the peace, assaulted a public official, _and_ threatened the District Attorney…"

Une had her cell phone out so fast it defied physics.

Relena approached them, and Quatre was suddenly very aware of the deafening silence around them. The music had stopped and every one of Relena's guests were looking at them.

"Quatre?" Relena asked in a tone that suggested both irritation and resignation.

He rolled his eyes.

"Relena?" he echoed her tone.

"Miss Darlian, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid your fiancé is going to have to come down to the police station." Khushrenada looked anything but sorry.

Relena sighed and shook her head.

"I knew this would happen. Oh, Quatre, don't you see what you've become? You've got to stop drinking and remember who you _are_." She turned to Khushrenada. "Honestly, maybe a night in prison will do him some good – clear his head."

Both men looked at her in shock.

"What?" she demanded. "I cannot condone violence, in my house, on _my_ birthday, by my fiancé of all people."

Quatre couldn't help but laugh.

He was sure that the footage of him being escorted from Relena's house in handcuffs, laughing his head off as the police shoved him into the back of a squad car, would be replayed for months to come.

* * *

Quatre was thrown into a holding cell for three hours.

His attire earned hostile looks from the men already occupying the cell – two well muscled thugs who looked like they could rip Quatre limb from limb without even trying; a transvestite who Quatre ultimately decided might be even more dangerous than the thugs; two drunken college students; and a teenage boy sporting two black eyes and a split lip.

After several pointed looks from the transvestite, Quatre ripped off both the boutonniere and the bow tie and gave them to her – him. _Her._

Part of him – the cowardly upper-class life spent in prep schools part – was convinced that he wouldn't make it out of the cell without his face looking at least as damaged as the kid's. Another part of him was disgusted at the very assumption that just because the police of _Sanc_ were treating these people like criminals he should agree with them.

A female officer with short, dark hair appeared in front of the holding cell.

"Alex Smith?"

The boy stepped forward.

"Who's asking?"

The two thugs chuckled and even the cop smiled slightly at his attitude.

"I'm Hilde. I know your… uncle Duo," she said.

"My –oh, yeah. Uncle Duo." The kid nodded.

"He sent Howard Parker to pick you up and told me to tell you that you're an idiot, but he's proud of you."

The kid grinned and then winced when he reopened the cut on his lips.

Quatre frowned as he recognized the name of Howard Parker – that was the newly elected City Councilmen from L2. He had been unanimously elected, as all L2 representatives were, since the natives of that quarter believed in drawing the name of their representative at random instead of participating in a democratic process.

He wondered what Howard, who was the representative of nearly one million L2 residents, was doing taking the time out of his life to pick up some bruised kid at the direction of… uncle Duo.

The woman escorted the boy from the cell.

"What are you in for?" One of the thugs asked Quatre.

He sighed.

"I punched Treize Khushrenada."

The two thugs exchanged looks.

"Bullshit," the first one decided.

"If you don't believe me, watch the news scrolls tomorrow – I'm sure they'll show it. Again and again and again."

"Quatre Winner."

He looked up to see a tall, auburn haired male officer on the other side of the bars.

"Yes?"

"Come with me, there's some paperwork to fill out regarding your assault."

Quatre gave the two thugs a significant look, as if to say _see, I told you so_.

The officer opened the cell and Quatre stepped out.

"This way," the officer said and started to walk down a corridor.

Quatre followed him into an interrogation room and instantly felt suspicious.

"Why are we talking in an interrogation room?" Quatre had to ask.

The officer frowned.

"You're a high profile arrest. The Chief thought you would appreciate a little anonymity."

That surprised Quatre. He would have assumed that Catalonia would have relished the opportunity to humiliate Quatre in front of Sanc's finest.

"So, Mr. Winner, it –"

"Quatre, please. My father – I'm not Mr. Winner."

The officer nodded.

"Of course. Quatre. It –"

"What's your name?"

The officer looked a little exasperated.

"Officer Barton."

"Barton? As in –"

"Trowa. Call me Trowa," the officer interrupted, definitely exasperated now.

"Sure thing, Trowa," Quatre said, earning a shake of the other man's head.

"Now," Trowa continued in a calm, even tone, "the report I have from Mr. Khushrenada – or would you rather I call him Treize?"

Quatre rolled his eyes.

"-says that you assaulted him and threatened to kill him at Ms. Darlian's birthday party."

"Sounds about right," Quatre agreed with a nod.

Trowa arched one eyebrow.

"You're admitting to threatening the life of the District Attorney?"

"Sure. No point in prolonging this. Either way I'll be convicted of it, right?"

"I'm not a lawyer," Trowa demurred.

"But you aren't an idiot either," Quatre couldn't help but mutter. He sighed. "What's my bail set at? And don't I get a phone call?"

"Your bail is set at five million dollars," Trowa said.

"Five – five _million_ dollars?"

"You're a flight risk," Trowa said in that same calm, even tone.

"I'm a flight – Did I fucking fly when you bastards murdered my father?" Quatre shouted at the video camera mounted in the far corner of the room. "You think an _assault_ charge is going to scare me?"

Trowa looked amused.

"We only turn the cameras on during actual interrogations," he pointed out.

"Oh."

"And that phone call…" Trowa passed a cell phone to him across the table.

Quatre frowned at it.

"I have to stay in the room," Trowa said, a slight note of apology in his voice.

"Right."

Quatre picked up the phone and dialed his home number.

"Winner residence, this is Rashid. How –"

"Rashid, it's Quatre."

"Master Quatre! The news scrolls said you've been arrested."

"Yeah, for once they aren't lying," Quatre muttered. "Listen, my bail is posted at five million dollars. There's no way in hell I'm paying these bastards," he covered the phone and looked over at Trowa, "sorry," the other man shrugged, "a cent of my money," he continued to Rashid. "I'll just stay here until the trial begins. But call Kat and let her know I need her to be my lawyer and let Iria know she'll be acting as CEO for a while and –"

There was a sound at the door to the room and Trowa grabbed the phone back from Quatre, snapping it closed and shoving it inside a pocket as he stood up in one smooth motion.

"What the –"

Trowa gave him a warning look and Quatre shut his mouth just as the door opened.

"Oh fuck, just kill me now," he begged Trowa when Dorothy Catalonia walked into the room.

She gave him a toothy smile before turning to Trowa with a hard look.

"I think you're done here, rookie," she bit out. "I can take over."

A muscle in Trowa's jaw bunched.

"Detective Merquise –"

Dorothy rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, as if I care. Run along." She made a shooing motion with her hand and Trowa reluctantly left the room.

"Hello, darling," Dorothy said to him and perched on the edge of the interrogation table once Trowa was gone.

"Darling? Last time we spoke you called me a dickless monkey. How did we wind back up at darling?"

Dorothy reached out and brushed his hair from his eyes and Quatre couldn't help but flinch under her touch.

"You have such a good memory, Quatre," she murmured. "Do you happen to remember what I said I would do if I ever saw you again? After you dumped me for that heinous cow Relena Darlian?"

"It was hard to understand you," Quatre said, "your habit of using colorful insults tends to complicate whatever you say when you're angry."

"Then let me give you a refresher. I told you that if I ever set eyes on your cowardly, puss filled dick blistered face again I would rip your heart out."

"Now I remember," Quatre said and struggled to keep a straight face. He honestly never could have forgotten someone calling him a puss filled dick blister but it was – now just as then – so inappropriately funny coming from her mouth that he just had to hear it one more time.

"And here you are…"

He scooted backwards in his chair when she leaned forward.

"You can't honestly hold it against me that I was arrested while you were on duty," he pointed out. "It's not like you provided me of an advance schedule so I knew when I could and couldn't go around picking fights with city officials."

"How strange. All I've been hearing about you for months now is what a sniveling little drunk you've become ever since dear old Daddy died. But look at you, sitting there, mouthing off to a police officer and the granddaughter of the mayor of Sanc. Not to mention the fact that you punched my cousin in a room full of witnesses and threatened his life…"

"I'm very, _very_ drunk," Quatre assured her even as he realized that he felt completely, dangerously sober.

"Hm. You're not worth my time right now, anyway," Dorothy finally decided. She stood up and Quatre let out a sigh of relief.

Instead of leaving, however, Dorothy stepped closer to his chair and backhanded him, five times, hard enough that Quatre felt his lips split and blood fill his mouth.

"I love you too," he called out to her as she slammed out of the room.

A moment later the door opened and Trowa stepped back in. He shook his head and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the blood on Quatre's lips.

"If you're going to act like an impotent drunk," Trowa murmured as he dabbed at the blood, "you shouldn't break character in a police station when you're at the mercy of people who want you dead."

Before Quatre could ask him what he was talking about, Trowa hauled him to his feet and dragged him back to the holding cell.

"Sweet dreams Officer Fine Ass," the transvestite called after Trowa as he left.

While he had been gone the two college boys had made bail, leaving Quatre, the thugs, and the transvestite alone for the evening.

Quatre was surprised by just how quickly he fell asleep.

* * *

"Winner."

Quatre snapped awake at the sound of his name being shouted. At some point in the night he had started to cuddle with the transvestite, and he had to work hard to free himself from her grasp without cutting himself on her scarily long red finger nails.

Trowa was holding open the cell door.

"What?" Quatre asked.

"Your bail was posted."

"No, I told Rashid not to –"

"Ms. Noventa posted it about an hour ago," Trowa interrupted him.

"Ms – damnit." Quatre got to his feet and followed Trowa to the main entrance of the police station.

Sure enough, waiting by the large glass doors, Sylvia Noventa stood waiting.

"Fuck my _life_ ," Quatre muttered and ran his hands over his face.

Trowa regarded him with amusement.

"Are there any blue eyed blonde haired women in Sanc you _aren't_ involved with?"

Quatre glared at him.

"Why don't they just call you Officer Smart Mouth?"

Trowa just chuckled and held out a clipboard.

"Sign here, here, and here."

Quatre did as instructed and passed the clipboard back to him.

"Take care of yourself," Trowa instructed.

Quatre could only nod, thinking about what Trowa had said to him – what he had done for him, since it was clear that the phone call he had made to Rashid was against protocol – and wondered just who the man was and why he had bothered to help him.

He cautiously approached Sylvia, taking the time to look her over and take in just how pretty and… honest she looked.

"Hey," he greeted her.

She arched one perfectly manicured eyebrow at him.

"Hey? You don't speak to me for six months, I bail you out of jail, and all you can say is _hey_?"

He had to smile at the irritation in her voice, but then he winced at the pain the gesture caused.

"Oh my god, what happened to you?" She stepped forward.

"Dorothy wasn't too happy to see me," he informed her.

Sylvia's mouth tightened into a flat, grim line.

"Come on, let's get you home."

He followed her from the station and wasn't even a little surprised to see that Rashid was waiting outside with the limo.

"I should have you fired," he told the man who had practically raised him. "I told you to call Kat, not Sylvia."

"Oh? I'm so sorry, Master Quatre. It must be my old age – my hearing isn't what it used to be."

Quatre glared at the man, but he showed no signs of repenting.

"Fine. Thank you," he added.

Quatre joined Sylvia in the backseat of the limo.

"Doesn't it look bad, you bailing me out?" Quatre asked Sylvia.

Like Quatre, she came from a family that had lost count of its fortune generations ago, so it wasn't as if the five million dollars put a dent in her funds, but she _was_ the daughter of the City Manager.

"No worse than you acting like a drunken fool for the last six months," she informed him tartly.

"Sylvia."

"Promise me you'll stop drinking so much."

Quatre sighed.

"Sylvia, I –"

"I'll cry," she interrupted. "I will. If you don't promise me _right now_ to never drink again I will cry."

Quatre couldn't help but laugh.

"Sylvia, you've never cried a tear in your life! Do you even know _how_ to cry?" It was one of the things that had made them such close friends – she knew that he couldn't resist tears and he knew she couldn't actually shed any.

She sat there glaring at him, her blue eyes painfully wide and a look of concentration on her face.

"Damnit!" She snapped a moment later and stomped one foot on the floorboard of the car. "I can't do it."

"God, I've missed you," Quatre said before laughing again.

"Then why have you ignored me?" She asked once he had gained control of himself.

He sighed.

"Look, Sylvia, now isn't –"

"Quatre Winner, I am your best friend. If you _dare_ put me off with that 'now isn't the best time' bullshit again I will punch you in the face."

"I'm with Relena. She's… there for me."

It was such a painful lie to tell, but it was also the only thing guaranteed to make Sylvia back off.

"If she was there for you then why did Rashid call _me_?"

"Because Rashid has always liked you best, you know that."

She glared at him.

"Sylvia, you need to move on. Forget about me. I'm just a drunken fool, remember?"

"But you're my drunken fool," she stubbornly insisted.

It took every ounce of Quatre's self-control not to reach out to her, not to touch her or spill all of the dark, gnawing fears that had plagued him for the last six months.

But Sylvia was the last good thing in Quatre's life – golden and pure and untouched by the corruption around her. He couldn't expose her to it.

"No, I'm not," he assured her.

There had always been something between them – some ghost of physical attraction and affection that went beyond friendship – but Quatre had never acted on it. The timing had never seemed right – too often Sylvia was dating athletic, upstanding young men of Sanc while Quatre had been pulled between Dorothy and Relena for years before his father finally made the decision of who he would marry.

Sylvia nodded.

"You're right," she agreed. "You're Relena's problem now."

She leaned forward and tapped on the glass barrier.

"Rashid, let me out here, I'll call a cab."

"Sylvia, don't –"

"Good bye, Quatre," she said and opened the door, jumping out before the car had even come to a stop.

"Damnit!" Quatre punched the empty seat beside him.

"Master Quatre?" Rashid asked from the front seat.

"Take us home," he glumly instructed the man.

He slept most of the afternoon – nursing a killer hangover and giving into a fatalistic depression now that Sylvia, his last chance for happiness, was finally out of his life.

Relena called and he didn't even bother pretending to listen to her but instead let the receiver balance on the pillow two feet from his head while she read him the riot act. Eventually he grew bored of the sound of her voice and got up.

He found Rashid in the library, organizing a stack of papers on his father's desk.

"What are those?" Quatre asked.

"These? Nothing that would interest you, Master Quatre."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes – Rashid had played this game with him for years, decades even. When Quatre had refused to eat peas as a child, Rashid had made a big show of eating a bowl full of them one day, exclaiming how delicious they were, but when Quatre asked for some he had turned him down, saying "these wouldn't interest you, Master Quatre." Of course, Quatre had demanded them and eaten the entire bowl.

"I'm not a child anymore, Rashid, I'm not going to fall for that again."

The butler shrugged.

"Very well. I'll just put them with the others to be shredded."

 _That_ caught Quatre's attention.

"Shredded? You're shredding my father's papers?"

"Per his instructions."

"But – what papers could my father possibly have wanted shredded?"

Rashid regarded him with a frank, assessing gaze.

"You seem sober," he eventually decided.

"Depressingly sober," Quatre agreed.

Rashid held out the papers and Quatre accepted them.

He leafed through them, more and more confused with each new page he read.

"You said there were more?"

Rashid nodded and lead Quatre down a corridor to the wine cellar.

Before his father's death Quatre had avoided almost all alcoholic beverages – a holdover from a brief commitment to traditional Islam in his youth as a means of rebelling against his father – and even during his recent foray into all things fermented he had avoided wine.

This was the first time Quatre had even been in the wine cellar since his father's death.

"What are we doing in –" he cut himself short when Rashid opened the stone wall in front of them.

Only it wasn't stone – it was a hollow door that was painted and even perfectly textured to resemble a wooden door.

Rashid stepped inside the doorway and flipped a light switch, illuminating a long stone corridor.

Quatre followed him down the corridor, judging from the dampness and coolness in the air that they were descending far below the grounds of the estate house.

As they neared the end of the corridor Quatre could make out a watery, greenish blue light illuminating a large room.

They stepped into the room and Quatre looked up. It took him a moment, but he realized that he was looking up, at the bottom of the reflection pool on the south lawn of the estate.

He turned and looked around the inside of the room, taking in the high tech computer panels, the array of weapons, and safes, and the five suits of black Kevlar armor.

"Holy shit. My father was _Batman_?"

Rashid laughed.

"Hardly. Your father was a pacifist through and through."

"Then what was he doing with a cache of AK-47s?" Quatre demanded.

"They were for _you_."

Quatre's jaw dropped and he looked at Rashid.

"For _me_?"

* * *

Up Next:

The inner workings of Duo Maxwell's mind…

* * *

**Chapter 6: Chapter 6**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Six

It had been eight months since the death of Mike Kennedy, but Alex Smith still walked the streets of L2 looking like his heart had been cut out.

He had also starting doing stupid shit – at sixteen he was too young to be put to work in any of the _legitimate_ businesses in L2, so he hung out with gangs that ran whores, drugs, and guns into the other quarters of the city instead.

A month ago it had gotten his ass sent to jail for a few hours after he had picked a fight with a cop to allow an injured gang member to escape, until Duo and Howard had managed to pull enough strings to get him out, but it hadn't discouraged him from hanging out with that same bad crowd.

So Duo decided to intervene.

Maybe it was because he felt guilty over Mike's death – if he had acted quicker or hadn't been distracted by the incredibly distractful Heero Yuy, he could have saved the kids life – or maybe it was because Duo knew what it felt like to have your best friend die on you.

Duo knew what it felt like to be completely unmoored, to wander the streets at all hours looking for something to do that made you feel alive again.

But Alex was sixteen. Too young to throw away his life and definitely too young to have the tired, cynical look of an L2 street thug in his eyes.

With the permission of Alex's mother, Duo picked the kid up from school one day and took him to the local gym.

"Boxing lessons," Duo explained to him when Alex started to complain and said he didn't need to lift weights.

"I'm not worried about people _punching_ me," Alex sneered.

Which told Duo that he was definitely worried about people shooting him.

That, Duo knew, was entirely his fault. Mike's death had been one of only several incidents of outsiders bringing guns and violence into L2, but in the intervening months it had only gotten worse.

Duo had to split his time between retribution against the Sanc cops – it took effort and a lot of work to kill the bastards and it make it untraceable – and protecting his own quarter.

It wasn't as if L2 was helpless – every adult had training in firearms and self defense and was put on security rotation for one month each year, to ensure the continued safety of L2 – but these weren't gangs trying to push in on them. This was something else. Something organized and something relentless.

Every body they searched had that same M tattoo with the three dots, but as yet no one had ratted out who they worked for or why they were invading L2.

It was a mystery, and Duo hated mysteries. What he hated even more than that, however, was to see a kid afraid of outsiders.

"You should be worried about people punching you," Duo argued and to demonstrate his point swooped in and delivered a quick succession of hits to Alex's stomach that left the teen doubled over in pain.

"Fuck, man. What the hell was that for?"

Duo couldn't help but grin.

"For being a pussy."

Alex glared at him and jumped back to his feet and rushed Duo.

He easily sidestepped the boy and danced on the balls of his feet, a shit eating grin plastered on his face that Duo had perfected as the ultimate tool to annoy his opponents.

Duo let the boy attempt to hit him for a few minutes, always jumping back and keeping him at bay, but didn't bother to hit him again until the end, when Alex growled in frustration and reached for the gun Duo knew he had started to carry around.

He grabbed the boy's hand and delivered a brutal punch to his wrist, sending the gun flying from his desk and skittering across the concrete floor of the gym.

"How old are you?" Duo demanded.

Alex yanked free of his grip and glared at him.

"I'm sixteen."

"Then you gotta wait two more years before you can carry a gun, shit head."

"I'm not a kid!" Alex insisted with a shout.

It was all Duo could do not to roll his eyes – why was it that whenever a kid wanted to prove they were grown up they always _acted_ like a child?

"No," Duo agreed after a moment. "You aren't. You've seen things no kid should ever have to see."

The quiet words got Alex's attention in a way that Duo making fun of him never could have. He watched the boy swallow hard several times.

"But you _owe_ it to Mike to be smarter than this, Alex. You owe it to your Mom to come home at a decent hour so she doesn't have to stay up all night, picturing you bleeding out in a gutter somewhere."

Alex opened his mouth to argue, but Duo shook his head in warning.

"It isn't your time yet, Alex."

"That's such bullshit! Everyone knows that when you were my age you were kicking Core ass! Why do _I_ have to wait? You didn't!"

"You're right," Duo agreed. He took off his jacket and then pulled off his shirt.

Alex's eyes went a little wide as they took in all of the tattoos on Duo's arms and chest. He turned around and let him admire the back view for a moment as well.

"You want this, right?" Duo asked. "You want the ink and the reputation? You want to feel big and bad and tough and you want to prove to the world that nothing can touch you, right?"

Alex nodded eagerly.

"Do you know which of these I got first?"

Alex shook his head in the negative.

"This one," Duo said and jabbed a finger against the Celtic cross over his heart. "I was eight when the Maxwell Church was burned down by OZ gunrunners. It took me three months to track down the bastards who did it and kill them. So Howard let me get the cross, because I earned that, at the age of _eight_ when I killed four men and two women."

Duo next pointed to the reaper scythe on his rip hip.

"I started running with the Reaper Crew when I was ten, but it wasn't until I was eleven that I killed my first Sanc cop. It was some fat, middle aged bastard who wandered into L2 looking for a cheap fuck."

Duo stepped closer to Alex, gratified when the boy actually stumbled backwards a step. He showed him his left wrist in Alex's face so he could see the Latin words _Messor de Mors_ that were inked across the veins on the inside.

"This one I got for being the only Reaper who escaped the shootout when I was thirteen that killed off the rest of the crew."

He pointed higher up, on the outside of his forearm, to _Misericordia In Anima Mea_.

"This was a gift from Abe Greenfeld when I saved his daughter from getting raped by Core crank dealer. I was fourteen."

He started on his right arm, taking vicious pleasure in the slight green tinge to Alex's face.

"This –"

"I get it," Alex interrupted. "I _get_ it."

"Do you?" Duo asked.

"It's not just ink. You earned those – each of them."

"It's funny, I never think of it like that – of _earning_ them. I _paid_ for them, Alex. I paid for each of these with my blood, with my pain, hell, even my fucking tears."

"What about that one?" Alex asked, and nodded to Solo's name across Duo's clavicle. "When did you get that?"

"When I was seventeen." It wasn't, Duo thought, one of the stories the kids probably liked to tell about him. To his knowledge, now that Solo was dead, Alex would become only the third person to even know it. "It was a fucked up time in my life – after the Reaper Crew I sort of drifted between gangs for a few years before I fell in with the Deliverance Crew."

Alex's eyes widened, the reputation of that particular gang was _very_ well known.

"Yeah," Duo agreed with the look. "Things went to shit real fucking quick. The Deliverance boys thought they could run guns into L1, compete with OZ, and I was at the age when I was stupid enough to want to fit in with a gang and belong. They planned a hit on one of the OZ warehouses, but I was a moron and left behind my cut," Duo used the slang term for the leather vest that members of gangs wore to identify their allegiance, "so Freddy – the leader – made me go back and get it. I bitched up a storm about it, but I went. By the time I got back, the crew was in the middle of it. I was ready to charge in, but some pig grabbed me and threw my ass in jail for breaking fucking curfew."

"What?" Alex asked in dismay.

"I know," Duo agreed with a shake of his head. To this _day_ it rankled him that Solo had pulled that crap. "Nobody's given a shit about curfew for the last thirty years, but this stupid asshole made me spend a night in the holding cell for being out too late." Duo shook his head. "In the morning he let me out, but he made me watch the news scrolls. Every single member of the Deliverance Crew that went on that run died. I was the only one that survived it – and that's only because some fucking pig got to me first."

"Solo?" Alex guessed.

"Yep. So after that, my life was his." Duo tapped one finger on the tat. "Still is. He saved me from going down in flames. I'm going to do the same for you."

Alex regarded him with a wary expression for a moment but then he sighed.

"I'm not going to have to get your name tattooed on my chest though, am I? Because, no offense, but that's a little gay."

"You are so going to get your ass kicked, you little fucker," Duo said and charged him.

After he had pinned Alex and given him a few more good-natured, slightly pulled punches, Duo directed him towards one of the heavy punching bags along one wall of the gym.

"The reason you need to learn boxing is because you need to learn discipline," Duo instructed. "You're right – you're not going to meet too many people who want to punch you. These days everyone has at least one gun and who the fuck knows how many knives. But those weapons can be taken from you – like that gun you're not going to touch again for two years. But your fists… if someone takes those from you then you've got other issues."

He showed Alex a few simple lunges and leaned back against the wall to watch his form.

"Boxing lets you build up your body and focus your mind. You got a lot of rage, over Mike's death, right?"

Alex nodded and delivered a vicious right jab to the punching bag.

"That's good, but it's going to get you killed."

Alex turned to stare at Duo and he took the opportunity to kick the heavy bag forward and catch the boy in the groin.

"It blinds you," Duo explained with a grin when Alex glared up at him. "Makes you stupid. You'll get yourself killed if you act in anger. Right now, when you think about Mike's death what do you feel?"

Alex swallowed hard and shook his head, indicating that he couldn't talk about it.

"Sick, right? This hot, sick knot of pain deep in your belly that seems to be eating away at everything inside you?" Duo suggested.

Alex nodded and blinked back tears.

"Gotta cool that down, buddy. Turn all that into ice and don't ever let it melt."

"Is that how you feel about Solo's death?"

Duo smiled tightly and rubbed at a spot just below his ribs.

"Not yet, which is why Papa Bear and Baby Bear Catalonia are still alive. If I moved on them now… shit, they're vicious fucks but they're smart. Catalonia knows I'm coming for him."

"You've been killing cops," Alex pointed out as he resumed punching the bag.

"Yep, but that ain't personal – it's not about Solo. That's about keeping the balance."

"I don't understand."

"Good. I don't want you to, not yet."

Alex glared at him.

"But I want to _do_ something, man! I heard about the guys with the M tattoos – I know the guy that killed Mike had one! I know they're outsiders. That's why I'm running with the Nightmare Crew."

Duo shook his head.

Even though you weren't allowed to own a gun until you were eighteen in L2 most of the gangs started to recruit prospects who were sixteen or seventeen – a perfect age since they weren't good for anything but bitch work. The Nightmare Crew weren't the worst of the gangs in L2 – the rebuilt Deliverance Crew took the cake on that front – but they weren't one of the light weights either.

"Fine," Duo said. "I'll give you a choice – which is more than I ever got. You want to run with the Nightmare Crew and get fucked over when the war starts – and we all know it's coming – then go for it. I won't stop you."

Alex frowned.

"What's the other choice?"

"You show up here every day after school and I teach you everything I know. You go to school, you respect your Mom – and you stop stealing shit from Howie's store. And I won't treat you like a kid unless you act like one."

Alex considered his choices.

Duo had enough of a reputation in this part of L2 to be something of an urban legend among the teenaged boys, and Alex was of the exact age to be enamored with the stories of Duo's _ruthless creativity_ as it had recently been called.

If Alex worked his way up the ranks of the Nightmare Crew and managed to keep himself alive, he was smart enough and tough enough that he could be the leader one day. But if he became Duo's apprentice he was guaranteed a whole other level of respect in L2 than that of a mere gang leader.

"I'll think about it," Alex finally said.

Duo was happier to hear that than an immediate decision, and he nodded.

"Good."

* * *

He waited until it was just after midnight before he caught the subway to L1.  
Duo had decided, after recent events, that it was time to have a face to face chat with Solo's former rookie, Hilde Schebeker.

She lived in a middle class, run of the mill neighborhood, in an actual house.

The brick structure looked… cozy, and it unsettled Duo enough that he spent over an hour looking at it before deciding to break in.

He jumped the fence to her back yard after ascertaining that she didn't have a dog and broke the glass on her back door and let himself in.

The place wasn't alarmed – a stupid, stupid move on her part that Duo made a mental note to rectify as soon as he could – and there was enough external light from the streetlights that navigating the dark rooms took him no time at all.

He found her asleep in her bed and couldn't resist the urge to give her a bit of a scare.

Duo put on his leather gloves and pulled out his knife before approaching the bed. He clamped one hand over her mouth and used the other to press the knife against her left side, the angle perfectly poised to enter between her ribs and sink into her heart.

Hilde reacted instantly, biting down on his hand and kicking her legs upwards to catch his knife arm and send him staggering back for a moment.

He had his gun out and trained on her a full three seconds before she managed to find her own sidearm.

"Dead. Five times over."

Hilde was breathing hard, but she kept the gun focused on him.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Uncle Duo," he introduced himself with a broad grin.

Hilde's eyes narrowed.

"What the hell are you doing in my house at one in the morning?" she demanded.

"Proving to you that you need to move out of Sanc."

"I'm not leaving Sanc," Hilde insisted.

"Then you're an idiot. Just like that reporter friend of yours – Meilin Long?"

The gun wavered.

"What are you talking about? Did you – did you know her?"

"Yeah, I met her once. And you're just like her. Jesus Christ, you don't even have an alarm system on your house!"

She shrugged.

"Any halfway decent thief would be able to by-pass anything I could afford. There's no point wasting the money."

Duo was impressed with her logic, even if he didn't agree with her.

"I'll get you one then. And stop sleeping with your gun on the nightstand. Keep it under your pillow and keep another under each side of your bed."

"Citizens of Sanc can only have one registered gun. Even cops."

Duo rolled his eyes.

"Then get some _unregistered_ guns."

"That's illegal. I'm an officer of the law and I have to uphold –"

"Oh fuck that bullshit. You think Solo didn't have a damn arsenal in his apartment?"

Duo had smuggled the guns into the apartment himself, since one of the conditions of Solo, a cop, being allowed to live in L2 meant that he didn't get to carry a weapon unless he was on the monthly security rotation.

"Solo lived in L2," Hilde pointed out.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"My neighborhood –"

"You seriously think your neighborhood is going to protect you when OZ sends hit men after you? Or are you implying that Solo had to protect himself from everyone who lived around him in L2? He told me about you – your weekend adventures in L2 with your Dad and your real life with your Mom here in L1. I know your type – you fucking half-ins are all the same. You think having a relative in L2 gives you street cred but you look down on the quarter just as much as the rest of the assholes do."

Hilde didn't bother to deny it, and he gave her points for that, at least.

With a sigh, Duo finally put away both his gun and his knife.

"You'll do fine against any of the OZ regulars," he decided, "but if you piss off the Catalonias enough they might send a real professional after you – and that you wouldn't be able to survive."

"Then I guess I'll have to try not to piss either of them off," Hilde said.

Duo liked her attitude – it reminded him of himself – and he could see what Solo had liked about her.

"I appreciate you looking after the kid a month ago," he told her.

"Of course. That's my job. I always try to look out for L2." It was said a little defensively, as if she was trying to make up for her earlier, tacit admission to looking down on the quarter.

"Yeah. I know. Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't stopped by before now, but I've been a little busy."

Hilde arched an eyebrow.

"Eleven dead cops in the last six months," she said in agreement. "Including my new training officer. I was reassigned three times before they just gave up and took me off probation and gave me full rights."

"Sorry to be a hassle," Duo said with a grin.

"Those cops…"

"Were all crooked."

"But were they irredeemable?"

"Were they _what_?"

"Irredeemable? I know you – and Solo – have that whole motto of once a scumbag always a scumbag, but have you considered that some of these cops are only crooked because they don't have any other choice?"

"Fuck me," Duo muttered and ran a hand through his hair. "You're serious, aren't you?"

She regarded him levelly.

"I might be one of them – if Solo hadn't been my training officer. There's a rookie right now who's borderline – he hangs around Merquise all the time but he's kind to the whores and drug addicts in holding."

"Don't go writing off Merquise just yet," Duo cautioned her.

"Really? He's practically Catalonia's right hand."

"No, his daughter is his right hand. Merquise is just well connected, but he's not crooked. Not _too_ crooked, anyway."

Hilde shook her head.

"He protects the meth labs in the Core. The rookie I mentioned – he actually arrested one of the dealers one day and brought him in. When Merquise cut him loose they had a huge fight in the middle of the station."

"Sounds like your rookie isn't borderline after all," Duo pointed out.

Hilde frowned.

"Not with stuff like that – but the other stuff… every single arrest we make on someone connected with the Barton foundation somehow finds its way to his desk and then it always gets buried or written off."

"How long has he been a rookie?"

"Three months – he went through the Academy on an accelerated pace and finished his training in four months instead of six, so he's really fresh. Catalonia – Dorothy Catalonia – has it out for him, though. Don't know why, but she _hates_ him. Every time they send a cop into L2 for any reason it's him. It's like she wants him to die."

"Do you need any more proof that he's on the level, then?" Duo asked.

Hilde sighed.

"No. But the Barton stuff bothers me."

"No one's a saint. Not even Solo was," he added when she started to speak up. "Even your reporter friend – she meant well but she was fucking stupid. I don't want you to end up like her, okay?"

Hilde nodded.

"Good. I'll come back in a few days and install a security system for you. In the meantime, can you give me any intel on your coworkers?"

"What kind of intel?"

"The kind that I put on my list and check twice before giving them a Christmas present. What kind do you think? I need intel so I can wipe out those crooked pigs."

Hilde hesitated.

"I'm not… I can't do that. I know Solo used to give you info on the guys he arrested who didn't get convicted and I know that you killed them. I know that's what you're doing now and… yeah, a lot of those guys are just as bad as Catalonia. But not all of them. I can't just sell them out like that."

Duo arched an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Really," she said in a shaky but determined voice.

That was a major setback for Duo's plans. All of the intel he was operating from was nine months old – all from before Solo's death – and it was starting to be wrong as often as right these days. He needed Hilde's help to get this thing done.

But he could tell by the set of her slim shoulders that she had made up her mind about this.

"Alright," he said. Maybe in a few months, once things had gotten worse, she might feel differently, he decided. "In that case, will you look into this tattoo for me? See if it comes up on anyone you guys arrest? Let me know."

He passed her the folded photograph of the body of the man who had killed Mike and the tattoo on his chest.

"Okay," Hilde agreed.

"Thanks. See you later."

He started to leave her bedroom and then remembered.

"Oh yeah, I broke your kitchen door window. Might want to have that repaired."

"Thanks," she spat.

* * *

He walked back to the L1 terminal at a sedate pace, enjoying the crisp fall air and trying to work through just how he could get fresh intel on the Sanc cops since Hilde refused to cooperate.

Duo almost missed him, but just as he walked into the main terminal he saw a flash of messy brown hair that stopped him in his tracks.

_It couldn't be…_

But it was.

Duo followed him for three blocks before he finally decided definitively that it was Heero Yuy he was following.

He hadn't seen the man in more than half a year, but Heero had a face that was impossible to forget. Not to mention the fact that Duo _never_ forgot the face of someone who held him at gunpoint.

He had no idea where the other man was headed – his route through the L1 quarter was circuitous and he backtracked at least three times, as though he was convinced he was being followed – but Duo continued to tail him for twenty minutes before he lost sight of him headed down a side street.

"Shit," Duo muttered to himself and chose an alley at random to head down.

Heero was waiting for him, gun cocked and aimed squarely at his forehead.

"Evening, Heero, buddy," Duo greeted him.

Heero's brows wrinkled in confusion.

"Why are you following me?" He seemed genuinely baffled to have Duo tailing him.

"Well if I follow you I have a pretty good view of your ass," Duo said and grinned at the other man, "but there's also the matter of you stealing my gun. I want it back."

Heero smirked.

"That Five seveN of yours was modified. It doesn't handle like anything I've ever used before."

"No shit. Why do you think I want it back?"

"Can't you just get a new one? I'm assuming it was manufactured in L2? Or at least you had the custom work done there."

"I did the mods myself. And it has sentimental value."

Heero seemed to be deciding whether or not to kill Duo, and he let him think it through.

Duo didn't meet too many people who actually intimidated him – Duo had spent a lifetime analyzing weaknesses in others and size, weight, and muscle didn't faze him – but there was something so cold and detached in the way that Heero assessed him that had Duo standing on the balls of his feet, ready to react.

"I didn't carry it tonight. It's back at my apartment."

Duo waited for him to elaborate, but when Heero remained silent he decided to fill in the blanks for himself.

"So… are you inviting me over for milk and cookies?"

The slightest hint of a smile tugged at one corner of Heero's mouth.

"I guess so."

"Good, cuz I am fresh _out_."

Heero put his gun away and started walking again, and Duo fell into step beside him.

"Been busy?" Duo asked, thinking about the near weekly destruction of meth labs on the news scrolls these days.

"Yeah," Heero said. "Have you started any new video games?"

Duo was amused that Heero had remembered his excuse for the equipment at his apartment.

"A few," he told the other man.

Heero lived in a far more upscale part of L1 than Hilde, but his apartment building had no doorman, just a keypad and what looked like bulletproof front doors.

"This place feels like a fucking fortress," Duo muttered as they walked through the empty foyer towards the elevators.

"It is," Heero said but offered no further explanation.

He lived on the fortieth and top floor and the view from his living room took Duo's breath away.

The entire city of Sanc stretched out below them. Duo could actually make out the Core and each quarter, divided by the highway, and it looked… _peaceful_.

Duo had never seen the city from this angle. L2 had tall buildings, and Duo had done his fair share of B & E in high rises all over the city, but there was something about the view from L1 that made him rethink his mental image of the city.

Behind him, Heero turned on five different flat panels and five different news scrolls started playing. Duo barely paid attention to them – just long enough to discern that Heero wasn't playing the underground L2 scroll – before turning back to the floor to ceiling windows and the amazing view.

He followed the neon trails of lights through L3 towards the huge, bright strings of light that had to be The Circus and then looked past it towards the dark, empty field that was the city cemetery.

Duo was so engrossed that he didn't even realize Heero was standing behind him until the other man had a gun pressed to the base of his skull.

"You're not seriously going to shoot me and risk getting blood all over your carpet," Duo said.

"It's stain resistant," Heero assured him.

Duo couldn't help but chuckle at the other man's sense of efficiency.

He slowly turned around and Heero adjusted his aim so that he was pointing the gun at Duo's chest.

 _Smart_ , Duo thought, _going for the sure thing with a body shot instead of risking me ducking a gun aimed at my head_.

"That's not my gun," he pointed out.

"No, it's a SIG Sauer P226. I wondered if you would be interested in modifying it for me."

Moving slowly, Duo reached out and put one hand over Heero's on the gun's smooth grip. Heero's fingers relaxed under his and Duo took the gun.

"What did you want done?" Duo asked and started to disassemble it, keeping his focus on Heero's face while his fingers worked from memory.

"Chop it down to seven and a half inches and replace the wooden grip with rubber."

Duo shrugged.

"That's a lot of body work – you're talking taking off more than an inch on it. Why not just get something new?"

"Sentimental value," Heero said with an arched eyebrow. "And I'm curious to see if you can do it."

Duo laughed at the honest challenge.

"Yeah, alright. I'll see what I can do." He put the gun back together and put it down on the nearest surface, a coffee table, before turning back to admire the city. "This view is fucking incredible."

"It is," Heero agreed, but in the reflection from the window Duo could see that the other man wasn't looking through the windows at all. His dark gaze was focused solely on Duo.

 _Well that answers that question_ , Duo thought to himself with a smirk. He leaned one shoulder against the window and turned slightly towards the other man.

"You ever fucked anyone against these?" he asked casually.

"Not yet," Heero answered, and the heat in his gaze told Duo that he planned to rectify that fairly soon.

Duo smirked and reached out to grab Heero's shirt and haul the other man against him.

Heero's eyes were narrowed, the expression in them halfway between angry and aroused, and Duo kissed him.

As their tongues tangled together and each man fought for control of the kiss, Heero pushed Duo back against the windows and started to strip him. Heero pulled off his shirt first and skimmed his hands over Duo's exposed flesh as if mapping his body.

The kiss lost its edge of urgency and turned deeper as it became less of a battle.

Duo let the other man undress him, only helping by stepping out of his boxers and cargo pants and then kicking off his boots, and allowed Heero to look over his body for a moment before he returned the favor, reversing their positions and shoving Heero back against the cool glass while he took of his clothes.

Once Heero was also naked, his amazingly taunt, lithe body practically vibrating with need, Duo knelt in front of him and licked his way down Heero's erect penis.

The other man groaned and his hips surged forward when Duo closed his mouth over the tip and slowly worked his way down to the base.

Duo pulled back to repeat the motion, but a sudden light illuminated the night sky beyond the windows.

"What the fuck?"

Heero turned and they both watched as a massive explosion ballooned up and painted the darkness the bright orange and yellow of fire.

The fire had been visible for less than two minutes when Heero's phone rang.

With a scowl he searched his pants, found the phone, and walked away from Duo before answering it.

Duo didn't even bother to pretend that he wasn't listening in on the conversation, even if it was faint.

"…not me. No, _father_. I did not disobey your orders. I have not engaged the target. It was _not_ me."

Heero snapped the phone closed and threw it away in disgust.

 _Well that was unexpected,_ Duo thought.

He turned away from the open flame when first one, then the other news scrolls started to broadcast the live footage.

"Fuck. That's the Police Academy." Duo barely recognized the outline of the structure with so much fire and smoke engulfing it.

Heero came to stand beside him and the two men watched the carnage unfold over the news scrolls for the next half hour.

Until Duo recognized a familiar face.

Dressed in full uniform and running out of the fire carrying the burned body of a cadet was none other than the man Duo had met at Dorothy Catalonia's apartment six months ago.

"Officer!" One of the news reporters followed him as he deposited the body with EMTs. "Officer Barton, can you tell us what happened?"

Sharp green eyes glared at the camera.

"Someone attacked the Academy," he snapped, stating the obvious. Without another word he disappeared back into the fire.

 _Officer Barton_?

* * *

It was an hour before dawn when Duo finally left Heero's apartment. They had stood and eventually sat and watched the news scrolls for hours, both men in a state of shock over the absolute horror of so many casualties – by the time Duo left they had accounted for sixty-eight of the one hundred students, all dead, and recovered the bodies of at least eight instructors. Thus far the only survivor was Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin, the woman in charge of the Academy. She had been pulled from the fire by none other than Officer Barton. Officer Trowa Barton, Duo learned during the course of the night, who was just a rookie with the Sanc police force and had only graduated from that very academy three months prior.

He remembered to take Heero's SIG Sauer with him, but completely forget to get his own Five seveN back, a fact he didn't even realize until he had made it back to L2 and collapsed onto his bed.

Duo couldn't sleep. The images of that fire on the scrolls and from Heero's windows were seared into his brain, bringing his own memories of the Maxwell Church fire vividly to life.

Maybe it was because he had rehashed so much of the past with Alex earlier that day, but the deaths of Father Maxwell and Sister Helen felt more fresh and raw than they had in years.

He tried to imagine what the recruits at the Academy had experienced during their final moments, as the fire consumed them and they choked to death from the smoke and toxic fumes.

It was early afternoon before he ventured outside and it seemed as though every scroll he passed was focused on the Academy fire.

Duo went to the gym to wait for Alex, disappointed but not surprised to see that the owner of the gym had his panels set to the Core news scroll.

It was after three when they finally called off the search for survivors – whatever explosives had been used to burn the place had been concentrated enough to practically melt the walls, and the fire had reached such high temperatures that no oxygen had remained in the recruits living quarters.

At four it was announced that Noin was the only survivor.

By five Duo gave up on Alex showing up at the gym and was on his way out when Hilde Schebeker, in full police uniform, stormed in and pulled a gun on him.

"You _monster_!"

Her entrance and attire had the other five guys in the gym scrambling for their own weapons.

"Back off," Duo warned them.

"That pig has a gun on you, bro!" One of the men pointed out helpfully.

"I noticed," Duo snapped.

He focused all of his attention on Hilde. She had clearly been crying for hours, her eyes red and puffy and her breathing labored.

"How could you do this?" she demanded.

"Do what?" he asked in confusion. And then he realized. " _That_?" He pointed at the news scroll showing the burnt remains of the Academy. "You think that _I_ did that?"

"Last night you said – you said that you wanted to wipe them out! You said –"

He couldn't believe that she – that anyone – would assume he could engage in the wholesale slaughter of more than a hundred people he had never even thought of before last night, let alone wanted to kill.

"I said I wanted to get rid of the crooked pigs, Hilde. I never said anything about murdered fucking children in their beds. I never said anything about burning them alive!"

"But you – you hate them so much!"

"I didn't even fucking know them!" He rushed her as her arm started to waver and ripped the gun from her grasp.

"All of my friends were in there, Duo! My friends, my teachers. They're all dead. Solo – everyone is dead."

While part of him could empathize with her pain, a larger part was furious with her. How insane was she to have marched into L2 – and this gym was pretty far into the quarter – in full uniform and pulled a gun on him, on Duo Maxwell, in front of witnesses?

He drew her into his arms and awkwardly patted his back.

"Her Dad worked in the textile mills," Duo explained to the bewildered men.

They nodded, barely accepting his explanation for why he hadn't killed her on the spot.

Duo pulled off his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders before leading her out of the gym.

He walked her to the L2 subway terminal.

"Don't ever do that shit again," he warned her while they waited for the next train. "You can't just storm down to L2 wearing that and waving a gun around. That's not how things work and you're supposed to be smarter than this."

Hilde nodded jerkily.

"I wasn't thinking."

"Not thinking is going to get you killed," Duo warned her.

A train pulled up and he took his jacket back, reasonably certain that she wouldn't be molested on the train for being a cop. Not today, at least, when even the citizens in L2 were horrified by what had happened last night.

He watched the train pull away and her tear streaked face vanish in a rush of motion before walking back towards Howard's convenience store.

The old man had just been elected City Councilmen for the L2 quarter, so if anyone might know what the hell was going on it had to be him.

Apparently Duo wasn't the only one who thought so – the store was packed with people shouting questions at Howard.

Duo was about to turn around and walk out, but Howard caught sight of him.

"Duo! Duo! You got mail!"

He never had mail, but Howard held up a fancy, cream envelope with gold embroidery and his name scrawled across the front in elegant calligraphy.

Duo frowned at the envelope but accepted it.

He waited until he was home before he opened it.

_You are invited to dinner with Master Quatre Winner tomorrow night at seven p.m. Please dress appropriately. No RSVP necessary._

* * *

TBC

Up Next:

Wufei Chang must answer for his sins…

* * *

**Chapter 7: Chapter 7**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

A/N#3: So… I won't even bother to pretend that I can come up with a reasonable excuse for Wufei blowing up a training academy. There wasn't any reasonable excuse for him to do it in GW either…sometimes the good guys are as bad as the bad guys.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Seven

He hadn't been back to the cemetery since the day of her funeral, but that evening when Wufei left work he got off the subway and navigated his way through the fields of cement blocks until he found hers.

 _Meilin Long_.

The tombstone was small – her family hadn't been able to afford anything larger and they had shaken off Wufei's attempts to purchase a better, larger plot and more fitting marker for the dead woman – that it was easy to overlook.

Wufei crouched down beside it. Someone had visited recently – there was a small bunch of fresh white flowers at the base of the stone.

"I hate you," he whispered. "I hate what you've done to me."

Only the distant rustle of fallen leaves answered him.

If only she hadn't been so stupid and so weak – if only she had _listened_ to him and kept clear of the tangled web that OZ and Romefeller and Barton had spun around this city.

But she hadn't. She had _never_ been able to mind her own business and she had always cared too damned much about everything.

The end result had been a slow, painful death in the L5 subway terminal. Wufei didn't have all of the details from her autopsy, but it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that she had been bleeding to death while he was in the station, coming home that night.

Her death had done something to him – not inspired him so much as broken something in him. He no longer cared, about much of anything, except for getting rid of the feelings of rage and desperation that had burrowed deep inside of him. He had to exorcise them. But every action he took only seemed to add fuel to the fire that burned in the pit of his soul.

He rose to his feet, resisting the petty urge to stomp on the flowers, and turned away. He vowed not to return.

Wufei walked back to the subway terminal, but instead of taking the train to L5 he waited for the next one to L4.

He still had no idea why he had been summoned to Quatre Winner's home for dinner and he was irritated that he had had only a day's notice – he had had to cancel a meeting and a previous dinner engagement for this.

Although he had grown up wealthy and pampered even, by Meilin's standards, Wufei's family was very far down the social ladder from the Winners'. A fact that was hammered into Wufei's skull when the taxi he summoned at the train terminal pulled up the drive in front of the palatial home that was one of Winner's smaller properties.

Wufei paid the driver and got out of the taxi so he could glare at the monument to wealth more closely.

He supposed the Winners' weren't evil – not like Dermail or Catalonia or even Barton – but there was no denying the fact that they had amassed their vast fortune by the failure of others.

Early in his career at _The Daily News_ , Wufei had been assigned to the financial beat, and he had printed story after story about the shady dealings of Winner Inc. and the meteoric rise of their stock after Quatre Winner took financial control of his father's empire.

Later, Wufei had interviewed Zayeed Winner on numerous occasions, first when he was elected as City Councilmen and then during his mayoral campaign. He had seemed like a genuinely respectful, honest man. His son, on the other hand, aside from having questionable business practices was a drunk and a hedonist.

A month ago the blonde man had been convicted of assault charges against Treize Khushrenada, the DA, and while a small part of Wufei had cheered to see the bruise on that smug bastard's jaw, a larger part of him thought this was just further evidence that Winner completely lacked self-control or personal worth.

He had avoided jail time, of course, by paying a hefty fine and engaging in community service.

And now he wanted to have dinner with Wufei.

* * *

The interior of the estate was just as sparkling with money as the outside, and as Wufei followed the butler, Rashid, into the library for pre-dinner cocktails he didn't bother to hide his irritation or disgust.

 _This_ is what these people do, he thought sourly as he stepped into the room. _They eat and they drink and they close their eyes_.

Quatre Winner stood by one of the room's tall windows, framed in the early evening glow of the setting sun, but he turned at the sound of Wufei's footsteps and offered the man a broad smile.

"Ah, hello! You must be Wufei Chang."

Quatre walked over and extended one pale, perfectly manicured hand.

Wufei reluctantly shook it.

"My father spoke very highly of you," Quatre said, still smiling, his eyes looking clear and his steady bearing suggesting that he wasn't drunk.

 _Not yet_ , Wufei added to himself. The downward spiral of the Winner heir was no secret, and while Wufei discouraged _The Daily News_ from printing too much society gossip even he hadn't been able to keep Quatre's more fantastic exploits out of the paper. Not that he had wanted to, either.

"I can't say that I'm too big a fan of yours, of course," Quatre continued, clearly feeling it unnecessary for Wufei to contribute to the conversation, "since you seemed to make it your personal mission to discredit me and my business acumen for a solid year."

Wufei shrugged, unapologetic.

"Will your fiancé be joining us?" He wondered if that was the purpose of this dinner – had he been summoned to help control the press regarding the highly anticipated break-up of the golden couple?

Quatre shuddered.

"God, I hope not."

Despite his resolve to hate everything about the man, his comment made Wufei chuckle.

Quatre's disdain for his future bride was more than apparent on any of the news or gossip scrolls, but more than that, Wufei felt a strong personal loathing for the woman who simply did not seem to exist in the reality of Sanc's corrupt city streets.

The blonde man looked on the verge of saying something, but the butler returned again followed by another man.

Wufei frowned as he looked over the newcomer.

He was dressed head to toe in black – black suit, black dress shirt, even a black tie – but the most striking things about him were his long braid of brown hair draped over one shoulder and his sharp, distrustful indigo eyes that seemed to skewer both Wufei and Quatre.

"Evening, gents," he said and walked into the room, hands shoved into his pockets, completely ignoring the hand Quatre held out to him.

"Duo Maxwell, I'm very glad you accepted my invitation," Quatre said, recovering from the other man's disinterest in being polite.

The braided man shrugged.

"Sure, I had to eat anyway – right?"

His accent and mannerisms labeled him as a native of the L2 quarter, and Wufei had to swallow his revulsion. Street trash – and clearly too stupid to feel ashamed of himself.

What on earth was Quatre doing inviting Wufei and a gutter rat to dinner?

"Who're you?" Duo asked with a jerk of his head in Wufei's direction.

"Wufei Chang," he snapped and stood to his full height. He might not be able to compete with Winner over pedigree, but he was certainly better than _this_ scum.

Duo smirked.

"You work for _The Daily News_ , huh?"

"I'm an assistant editor," Wufei corrected.

Duo nodded.

"Assistant. Yeah. Sounds about right."

Wufei opened his mouth to point out that an assistant editor was an incredibly prestigious job for someone his age, but the laughter in Duo's eyes silenced him. He snapped his jaw shut.

"I'm not sure how much it means, now, but I wanted to offer my condolences on the death of Solo Ford," Quatre suddenly spoke up.

Duo's eyes went from amused to glacial in a heartbeat. He whirled around to glare at the blonde man.

Wufei frowned – the name was familiar, but it took him a moment to place it. Ford had been one of the many Sanc police killed over the last year in mysterious circumstances.

He had had numerous interviews with Catalonia over the dead cops – Catalonia insisting that each death could be linked to a single individual despite all evidence to the contrary – but Wufei hadn't wanted to put any of the toxic stories in print.

"And to you," Quatre added, turning to Wufei, "for Meilin Long's death."

Wufei felt a bit of the other man's rage now.

 _How dare this man – this boy with no problems in his life – say_ her _name?_

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry about your Dad," Duo muttered after a moment. "Him getting mugged in L2 – bad shit like that doesn't happen in my quarter."

Wufei couldn't help but laugh.

" _Bad shit like_ that doesn't happen? Just the other shit – girls sold into sexual slavery, crack cocaine dealing and gun manufacturing? Gang wars and murdered cops? That other shit isn't bad?"

Duo's eyes narrowed.

"Winner had no business in L2, but no one in L2 had any beef with him. We didn't kill him."

Wufei snorted.

"As if anyone would believe that. He was mugged and –"

"I believe you," Quatre said quietly. "I know he wasn't killed by an ordinary street punk."

His word choice seemed to irritate Duo, but the braided man just rolled his shoulders.

"Anyway, that fancy invitation said something about dinner? Was that just a trick to get me here so we could sing Kumbaya or is there really food somewhere?"

Wufei snarled at the man's complete lack of manners and tact.

"Yes, of course, but we have two more guests joining us and –here they are."

Rashid was back again, this time flanked by two men.

Like Wufei, they were dressed in business suits – the taller, auburn haired man in a navy suit and red tie that somehow leant him an air of patriotism that Wufei found repellent; the slightly shorter, darker haired man wore a charcoal gray suit and a blue tie that emphasized the intense, dark blue of his eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but Wufei couldn't place his face with a name.

"Gorgeous Number One and Gorgeous Number Two!" Duo exclaimed. "Now it really _is_ a party!"

Quatre looked mildly dismayed by the man's enthusiasm for the newcomers.

"You… know each other?" Quatre asked.

"Intimately," Duo promised with a wink.

"Ugh." Wufei didn't bother to hide his irritation or disgust.

Duo turned on him with narrowed eyes.

"You got a problem with me, errand boy?"

Wufei's fists clenched at his sides.

"I am not –"

"Dinner is served, Master Quatre," Rashid interrupted smoothly.

"Excellent," Quatre said with a bright smile. "Let's move this discussion to the dining room."

"Good," Duo agreed with a smirk in Wufei's direction. "Nothing like adding knives to a discussion to liven things up."

Quatre went pale.

* * *

Once they were seated at the table – Quatre at the head, with Duo to his immediate right, Wufei to his left with the taller man on his other side and the shorter man beside Duo – Quatre picked up the introductions again.

"Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton, welcome to my home."

" _Officer_ Trowa Barton," Duo corrected, and there was a hint of anger in his voice that had Quatre frowning.

But the green eyed, auburn haired man just regarded Duo steadily.

"I should be grateful for your timing, I suppose," the man mused, "if you'd struck the Academy a few months sooner you'd have killed me too."

Duo's entire body stilled and his eyes froze.

"It wasn't him," Heero Yuy spoke up from Duo's side, his deep, quiet voice seeming to resonate in the absolute silence of the room.

Trowa arched one eyebrow.

"Really?"

"He was with me last night. All night."

Quatre's face flushed at the obvious implication of _that_ statement, and the look in Trowa's eyes turned speculative.

"Curious, though, how _you_ happened to be on the scene so quickly," Duo pointed out, his eyes still disturbingly flat.

"I was in the right place at the right time," Trowa suggested.

Duo laughed bitterly.

"Yeah, you seem to have a talent with that. So why didn't you blow it up sooner – you could have gotten even more publicity as the cadet who bravely tried to save his –"

"Innocent people died last night," Trowa bit out. "People who weren't involved in this. Not yet. I _knew_ them. They were _children_. They hadn't made their choice yet. They were _human_." There was pure agony in Trowa's green eyes.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees and the tension was thick enough that even Wufei felt his pulse speed up.

"I know," Duo agreed quietly.

A look passed between the two men, and by some unspoken agreement they relaxed minutely.

Quatre met Wufei's gaze and arched one golden eyebrow.

 _He knew_. The look in Quatre's eyes clearly said that he _knew_.

"They weren't children," Wufei snapped. "Only one of them was seventeen, and he was due to turn eighteen in three days. Every single man and woman in that facility knew _exactly_ what it meant to be a cop in Sanc. It was a preemptive strike – to keep them from –"

"You sick son of a bitch," Duo breathed and a murderous look filled his eyes.

Quatre reached out to still Wufei's hand when he reached for his gun.

"No," he commanded. "No," he repeated when Duo started to reach for his own weapon.

Something in Quatre's tone must have convinced him, because the L2 thug reluctantly sat back down.

"We have all committed regrettable acts," Quatre said once they were seated again. "No one at this table can judge anyone else – and no one _not_ at this table can judge _us_."

Wufei frowned at the words.

"The city of Sanc is a dark, twisted place without justice or hope. Our leaders and our protectors are completely without virtue. My father had a vision for this city, a dream that one day we could rise above the corruption and give the people of this city a chance to live in freedom and in peace."

Duo's upper lip curled at the words.

"My father was wrong," Quatre continued, surprising everyone at the table. "We cannot defeat this _disease_ by rising above. We have to fight this war on their playing field, we have to combat their attacks, and we have to defeat their soldiers, their plans, and their dreams. We have to crush them so completely that no one will ever want to be part of Romefeller or OZ or Barton again. We can't win this fight with pretty speeches and political rallies. Blood is the only way to end this."

Duo arched an eyebrow.

"Tell that to your girlfriend, will you? I'm bored as shit listening to her ramble on and _on_ about brotherhood."

Quatre shook his head.

"Believe me, I've tried."

"Why are we here?" Heero asked suddenly.

"The enemies of Sanc are powerful and rich and organized. Each of us has been doing our best, on our own, to fight them, and it's gotten us nowhere. We've lost people we care about and we've lost our way. The only chance we have of defeating them is by working together."

Duo sniffed and leaned back in his chair.

"I'm not into team sports. Unless we're talking about sex, in which case…" he trailed off and gave both Heero and Trowa lascivious winks.

"I work alone," Heero said bluntly.

"I can't afford to be connected to any of you," Trowa added.

"I don't _need_ partners," Wufei snarled.

Quatre steepled his fingers in front of his face and regarded them with narrowed eyes.

Eventually, he leaned back in his seat.

"Winner Incorporated is valued in the billions. I have more personal wealth than any citizen in this city – more than Deikim Barton, more than Treize Khushrenada, more than Edward Noventa. I have Sanc police on my payroll and I have informants from every quarter of this city providing me with intel on a daily basis. I _could_ build my own personal army and go after Romefeller and OZ and Barton on my own."

"Then why don't you?" Wufei suggested.

"Because I would win, and I would _become_ them. I would become the villain, and that is too high a price to pay. I need you four because you won't let that happen, and because you need each other to keep the same thing from happening to you." He sighed. "If you won't accept my invitation willingly, then I'm afraid our alliance will have to be a little more iron clad."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Duo demanded, but Quatre looked past him to Heero.

"I know you were the one who killed my father and Relena's father. I have bank statements to your accounts that can be linked to the dates and I have two eyewitnesses who, with the right amount of leverage, could accurately describe you in a courtroom. Not only do you owe me this, but if you don't work with me I will see to it that you are executed."

Wufei didn't know what he had been expecting the blonde man to say, but it certainly wasn't _that_. It was clear that no one else at the table had been prepared for this Machiavellian scheme, either.

Quatre turned to Wufei.

"Not only do I have surveillance footage of you planting the explosives at the Academy, but I have reports of a man matching your description tied to the murders of twelve drug dealers from the Core. I have absolutely no problem turning that evidence over to the Sanc police, who, I am sure, will be more than happy to sentence you to a very, very painful death."

Next he turned to Trowa.

"I know everything about your family history. I know who your sister is and where she is. If you help me, then I will guarantee her safety and I will see to it that she starts a new life, far from Sanc, far from Deikim."

Lastly, he looked back at Duo.

"You need me, just as much as I need you," Quatre pointed out. "You need my resources and I need your…"

"Ruthless creativity," Duo supplied with a smirk in Trowa's direction.

Quatre's lips twitched into a smile.

"Yes. I have nothing to blackmail you with and I have nothing to offer you – you don't want my money, there's no one I can protect for you, and I can't offer you revenge for the deaths of those you have lost."

Quatre gestured to the now cold food in front of them.

"I'm sorry to have kept you from your meals and I'm afraid I've lost my appetite."

"Blackmail will do that," Trowa murmured.

Quatre frowned.

"I wasn't threatening your sister's life," he clarified, "simply offering the chance to protect her."

"If we become your puppets," Trowa pointed out. "You're asking me to trade one master for another. You haven't threatened to hurt her, but you haven't stepped in to save her, either. How much effort would it even take? A few hundred thousand dollars – at the most? – to buy her from Deikim and set her up in a new city. Maybe a few days, two men you trusted… that's all it would take. Yet only my cooperation will buy that from you."

Quatre looked completely unapologetic.

"Unfortunately, that's the world we live in."

"You are one cold mother fucker," Duo said with a whistle.

Quatre arched an eyebrow at him.

"You pretend to be any different?"

"Nah," Duo agreed. "I'd do the same – he would too," Duo said with a nod in Trowa's direction, "if our positions were reversed. Doesn't change the fact that all of us want to kill you right now, though."

Quatre nodded.

"Which is why I don't expect any of you to give me an answer now. Please, think over my offer. You have twenty-four hours to let me know."

With that, Quatre rose from the table and left the room.

"This is your fault," Duo said and pointed a finger in Wufei's direction. "Not only did you interrupt my first chance to get laid in _months_ , but that little stunt you pulled sets back everything I've been working on. Sanc police are going to be all over my ass now. They're going to bring the hammer down on L2 and the whole city is about to experience a whole new world of pain."

"Good. Maybe it will inspire all of the weaklings into action."

"They _can't_ act," Trowa snapped angrily. "And this won't inspire anyone. It will only terrify the population into bowing down to Romefeller even more."

"Maybe, maybe not," Heero mused. "It proved that they are weak – OZ and Romefeller couldn't even protect their own Academy. Were you on duty today?"

Trowa nodded.

"And? How shaken up were the Sanc cops? It's one thing to have a madman claiming he will kill any crooked cop –"

"A madman? You say the sweetest things," Duo muttered.

"-but these weren't crooked cops. They were innocent men and women whose _potential_ association with OZ sentenced them to death."

Trowa frowned slightly.

"There was a lot of hysteria, but I don't know if that is just temporary or if it will last."

"Wait a second, how do _you_ two know each other?" Duo asked, waving a finger between Trowa and Heero.

"We've had a few late night rendezvous," Heero said.

"He a fan of milk and cookies, too?"

"Something like that."

"We've also worked together in a more… official capacity," Trowa pointed out.

Duo raised his eyebrows.

"I work in the Sanc IT department," Heero informed him. "I set up security firewalls for municipal officials and I investigate digital fraud."

"That sounds _really_ fucking boring," Duo said, a stricken look on his face.

Wufei frowned as he realized where he had seen Heero before.

The day after Meilin's death an IT guy from the City had come by to collect the hard drive from Meilin's computer. Unfortunately for the IT guy, Wufei had come in to work four hours early, after learning about her death, and erased everything on her computer after making copies for himself.

Heero had been the IT guy.

With a frustrated sigh, Wufei stood.

The other three men looked at him with identical, wary expressions.

"I don't need any of you," he decided and left.

* * *

Ever since Meilin's death, Wufei's nightly routine had significantly altered.

It wasn't until now, eight months after her death, that Wufei realized just what an integral part of his life she had become.

Even though he had insisted that she didn't move in, they had spent nearly every night together – fighting and screwing – and without her Wufei was completely alone.

When he had recovered her hard drive after her death Wufei had discovered that Meilin was not only an idiot but an instigator as well – she had created _The Nightly News_. The only paper in all of Sanc that dared to print the truth about the vice and corruption that had crippled the city.

The very paper that was responsible for Meilin's death.

His first instinct had been to delete every piece of information about the paper and her informants, but something… the same driving force that put him on this crusade in the first place, made him decide to continue her work.

He didn't have her connections or her passion for the underdog, but his long standing reputation for refusing to embroil _The Daily News_ in stories about the greed and corruption of Sanc officials meant that he had working relationships with those very same officials that gave him access to confidential information.

Information he now wasted no time in leaking to the general public. Those same stories he had always sneered over when Meilin presented them were now what occupied his mind and his fingers in the late hours of every night and the early hours of the morning.

But even that – typing until his fingers were numb and his eyes burned – wasn't enough to put out the fire.

Nothing was.

* * *

"Wufei, you do understand that these sessions are court mandated? And that your refusal to cooperate is the reason why they have been scheduled to be weekly instead of monthly?"

"Wufei."

It was an effort, but he made himself focus on the woman and her insistent voice.

Dr. Sally Po came highly recommended, and after Wufei had attacked a co-worker four months ago for calling Meilin a stupid cunt he had been sentenced to community service and, as Po never ceased to remind him, therapy sessions so he could learn to manage his anger and move past his psychological issues with Meilin's death.

It didn't matter to Wufei how highly recommended Po was, nothing the woman could possibly say to him did anything to alleviate the fire and she certainly hadn't earned his respect.

"I _heard_ you," he informed her through gritted teeth.

She arched one eyebrow at his tone.

"Do you feel guilt over her death? Is that what motivates your –"

"I feel _nothing_ over her death," Wufei interrupted, tired of these questions. The same questions she asked every week. "Her death had nothing to do with me."

A hard look came into Po's blue eyes.

" _Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind_ ," she quoted.

Wufei scowled. The words were familiar.

"John Donne," Po supplied. "And while I'm sure you strongly disagree with the concept that no man is an island, surely you realize that you are connected to every person in this city – and that you were connected to Meilin very strongly. Her death had _everything_ to do with you. Until you can acknowledge that, until you can move past it, there is absolutely nothing I can do to help you."

"In that case, can I go?"

Po held his gaze for a long moment and then sighed.

"Yes. Our time is almost up in any case."

Wufei stood up and sneered.

"Do us both a favor and tell the judge that I'm healthy enough to stop coming to these sessions," he suggested.

"Wufei, I am not the enemy. It is my job to help you, and I want to do that. You just have to _let_ me."

"I don't want your help, and I certainly don't need it."

He opened her office door and stepped out into the waiting room, tripping over someone in the process.

It was on the tip of his tongue to snarl at the person, but as he regained his footing he noticed it was a petite woman with short, dark hair and red rimmed eyes.

She glared at him, as though _she_ were about to snarl at _him_ , but they were both distracted by Po following Wufei into the hall.

"We all need someone, Wufei," she said, completely unconcerned with dispensing advice in front of other people. "Even you."

Po turned to look at the woman beside Wufei.

"Officer Schebeker?"

The woman nodded.

"I'm Dr. Po, please, step into my office."

The woman followed Po, but paused and looked back at Wufei just before closing the door, a concerned look in her eyes.

It infuriated Wufei that a completely stranger – a _cop_ no less – felt concern for _him_.

But when Wufei arrived home that night he had nothing to write for _The Nightly News_.

The fire was still there, burning hotter than ever, but instead of guiding him it was starting to consume him.

Reluctantly he decided that Po wasn't wrong.

He found his phone and dialed Winner's home number.

"Winner Residence, this is Rashid."

"This is Wufei Chang. Tell your boss that I'm in."

* * *

TBC

Next Up:

A survivor's opinion…

* * *

**Chapter 8: Chapter 8**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Eight

Her skin felt like one massive, raw, itching sunburn.

When she woke up in the hospital bed, two weeks after the Sanc Police Academy attack, all Noin could think about was scratching at the healing burns on her arms and side and making it _stop_.

She went so far as to reach out with her left hand, completely untouched by the flames, to shove aside one of the bandages on her right elbow.

"Stop right there."

Noin looked up guiltily and saw that Zechs Merquise was sitting in the chair across from her hospital bed, an amused, patronizing look on his face.

"You don't understand how badly it itches," Noin whined.

He arched an eyebrow at her tone.

"Do you want it to scar?"

"No," she said petulantly. Although a larger part of her simply didn't care. She had sustained second degree burns on most of her right side, but her right arm had only suffered first degree burns that were very nearly healed – aside from the unbearable itching.

"Then leave it _alone_."

Noin sighed and slammed her head back against her pillows.

"I hate hospitals. I hate being wounded. I hate being _weak_."

Zechs frowned.

"You aren't weak. You were wounded in the line of duty, Noin. You –"

"I was wounded in my sleep when my training facility was attacked by terrorists and every single student under my care was slaughtered," Noin corrected him, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"We're going to find out who was responsible for it and we're going to bring them to justice."

Noin leveled a glare in his direction.

"Don't feed me that bullshit, Zechs. You and I both know…" she trailed off with a sigh. There was no point, really, in rehashing this conversation again.

"Both know what?" he prompted.

"We both know that no one _ever_ gets brought to justice in Sanc."

"Maybe things are changing," Zechs murmured. He looked towards the closed door to her room before continuing. "Treize is… organizing a movement within OZ and Romefeller. The Treize Faction."

"How humble of him," Noin muttered.

"Une's choice of name – not his."

"That explains it then," Noin said with a sigh, "I'm sure she's got his name tattooed on her ass – and her labial folds. Probably has rose petals tattooed somewhere too."

Zechs' lips twitched into a smile that he quickly killed.

"He wants to push the old guard out of power and clean up the corruption in Sanc."

"Really?" Noin sat up straighter, intrigued despite her distaste for both Khushrenada and Une.

Zechs shrugged one shoulder.

"Uh-huh. You don't believe him, do you?" His face wasn't easy to read, but Noin had known Zechs since they were children on the playground. He was very nearly an open book to her.

"I want to," Zechs confessed with a frown, "but he's involving Trant Clark and Michael Quinze. Those two are…"

"Despicable." Noin knew the backgrounds of both men well – Clark was the mastermind behind the Core meth labs and Quinze oversaw L1s gun manufacturing and smuggling operations.

Zechs nodded.

"But what choice do we have, really, Noin? If we got rid of every criminal in Sanc there would be no one left."

Noin thought about all of those young, dead boys and girls.

"I want in," she told Zechs. "Whatever you're planning, I want in."

Zechs frowned.

"I'm not -"

"Zechs. Don't lie. Not to _me_."

He held her gaze for a long moment, a stubborn set to his jaw, but he eventually sighed.

"I don't have a plan, yet," he told her at last. "I think, for now, that I have to follow Treize's lead. Catalonia is only a few years from retirement and –"

"Zechs, Sanc doesn't have _years_ left. The Police Academy was completely destroyed! Cops are being murdered left and right – this fight isn't in the back alleys of L2 anymore, it's infected the entire city."

"Damnit, what am I supposed to do about it, Noin?" Zechs stood and she saw his fists clenched angrily by his sides. "I can't do a damn thing! I can't convict the drug dealers or the gun runners or the pimps. I can't _arrest_ the terrorists and gangs running around the streets and I can't even trust the cops I work with! There is _nothing_ I can do!"

The look in his pale blue eyes went beyond desperate and into a whole new realm of hopelessness. She hadn't seen him look like this since…

It suddenly hit her.

"The fire shook you up pretty badly, didn't it?"

Zechs swallowed hard.

"I wasn't even involved."

Noin nodded.

"You were there – I saw the footage of you visiting the site. Did it smell the same? The same as when your family was murdered?"

Zechs was saved from answering by the door opening.

Trowa Barton stepped into the room and seemed to instantly pick up on the tension. He looked between the two of them uneasily.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, his question directed solely at Zechs.

The blonde man gave a stiff nod.

"Yes. Of course."

Trowa looked at Noin to judge the veracity of Zechs' claim.

He had been one of her best students, as a cadet at the Academy, and now he was her savior.

Noin had been barely conscious when Trowa cared her from the flames that night, but she had seen the scrolls and had seen how he heroically returned into the flaming wreckage again and again, working alongside the firefighters to recover as many bodies as possible.

Trowa had been on an accelerated track at the Academy – an order cloaked as a suggestion from Zechs – and had kept mostly to himself, making few friends. Yet he had still known at least half the cadets at the Academy, and had certainly known all the instructors.

She wondered how he was dealing with the aftereffects of losing almost all of his peers.

After a moment Trowa turned back to Zechs.

"Sir, there's been a development in regards to the Academy bombing."

"What kind of development?" Noin couldn't help but ask.

Trowa frowned and raised one eyebrow, a clear question for Zechs about whether or not he could tell her.

Zechs inclined his head slightly.

"Our forensics teams haven't been unable to uncover anything," Trowa told Noin. "The site was…"

It seemed like Trowa couldn't find the right words to describe it. Noin nodding in understanding.

"Catalonia decided to call in a favor to an old friend. This morning that favor arrived."

To Noin's knowledge all of Catalonia's 'friends' had a bad habit of winding up dead. She wondered who he could possibly consider a friend that wasn't enough of a liability that he needed to have them killed.

"His name is George Septum."

"Fuck!" Zechs growled and jumped to his feet.

Noin frowned. She didn't recognize the name, but Zechs clearly had.

"He's an ATF agent," Trowa continued in an even tone. "He and his team are here to start investigate the bombing."

"Zechs, who is he?" Noin asked.

But the blonde man shook his head, clearly uncomfortable revealing information in front of Trowa.

With a groan, Noin sat up on the hospital bed.

"Trainee Barton, find Dr. Stevens and tell him that I need to be released. Today. Now."

Even though she didn't know who he was, if Zechs was that disturbed by the man then Noin needed to be out of this hospital and by his side. He clearly needed her help.

Trowa, once again, looked to Zechs for direction. For some reason it frustrated Noin – yes, Zechs was Trowa's superior officer but then so was she.

"That's an order, trainee," she snapped in irritation.

Trowa's posture went rigid and he nodded.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured and turned to go.

Noin could make out the barest trace of a smirk on his lips as Trowa looked at Zechs before leaving the hospital room.

It was enough insolence that Noin opened her mouth to launch into a tirade about egoistical boys, but then she caught the look on Zechs' face as he watched Trowa leave.

His features were normally so rigidly controlled that he had developed a reputation for being cold and unfeeling, but just now, in this moment, there was a softness to his mouth and a warmth in his eyes that Noin had only ever seen directed towards a handful of people, two of whom were long dead.

"Oh my God."

Zechs looked at her with a frown.

"What?"

"You _like_ him."

The frown became an angry scowl.

"You do. You've got a crush on your rookie!"

"I do not have a _crush_ ," Zechs spat. "I'm not twelve." He massaged the bridge of his nose. "We're involved."

Noin couldn't even remember the last time Zechs had dated anyone. During their time at the Academy together Zechs had developed a reputation as being a bit of a slut – one night stands with as many men in their cadet class he could lure into his bed and more than a few of the instructors.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Eight months."

"Well, that explains why you wanted him put through accelerated training. You didn't want your bed cold for six whole months."

Zechs glared at her.

"It's more than that." Something about his tone suggested that he would have preferred it not be.

Noin couldn't help but grin.

"So, what, he's a one night stand that you just couldn't shake? Has he confessed his undying love for you and you, emotionally crippled sex-fiend that you are, just couldn't find a way to break it to him that you hate committed relationships?"

"Hardly," Zechs muttered and shook his head.

"Then what? Because I don't know when you've slept with the same person twice, let alone spent eight months being… involved."

"I _care_ about him, Noin. It started out as… sex, amazing, completely mind numbing sex that –"

"Okay, I get that he's good in bed. You don't have to go into any details there."

"-but now…damn it all, I care about him."

"And that makes you angry and afraid, because you don't won't to lose him too. Like you lost your mother and father -"

"I didn't realize you had taken up psychotherapy," Zechs sneered.

"Online course," Noin responded sweetly. "You might as well start calling me Dr. Lieutenant Noin."

"Dr. Lieutenant?" Zechs echoed, a faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Yes," she decided with a nod. She waited a moment before continuing with her earlier line of questioning.

"How does he feel about you?"

"Damned if I know," Zechs muttered. "He certainly enjoys the sex – even now that he's not being – even now," Zechs corrected himself, and Noin wondered what he had been about to say.

"Even now?" she repeated, hoping to draw out his original words.

"Even now that we barely speak anymore," Zechs said. "A few weeks ago he made some arrests, a few of Clark's dealers, and when I cut them loose he – _we_ – had a shouting match in the middle of the pen."

"Really?" Noin tried to imagine Zechs, normally so calm and cool, and Trowa, who had struck her immediately as having amazing self control, fighting in the middle of the police station.

"I had to write him up for insubordination and then, later, I had to _explain_. We haven't spoken much since then."

Noin arched an eyebrow.

"But you're still having sex?"

Zechs sighed.

"How pathetic is it that the only thing keeping me sane is the feel of his skin? I spend my days walking through this…nightmare of a life and it's only _touching_ him that convinces me I have a chance of seeing this thing through."

 _Shit_ , Noin couldn't help but think.

The look of complete misery on Zechs' face told her that he felt the same way.

"Who is George Septum?" Noin asked, partly to change the subject and partly to take advantage of this rare vulnerability from Zechs.

"One of _them_ ," he said bitterly.

"Oh."

That was all Noin needed to know.

Twenty years ago, when Zechs was just eleven, Sanc had been a completely different city. The Mayor, Alexander Peacecraft had been known for his dedication to equality and peace – he had managed to forge a tentative truce between all quarters and the Core of Sanc for just over a year, and the city had experienced unparalleled financial prosperity. However, that prosperity had made more than a few greedy, and the risk of losing their place at the top of society to upstarts from one of the quarters had inspired a few of the more powerful Core families to band together and form the Romefeller Foundation. One of the first acts of the foundation had been to eliminate Alexander and his family – a sign to any who dreamed of challenging the Romefeller's that they would be defeated.

The Mayor's house had been burned to the ground – killing the entire staff as well as Alexander and his wife. The bodies of their two children, Milliardo and Relena, had never been found.

Noin was one of only a few people who knew that Zechs Merquise was in fact Milliardo Peacecraft and that his sister, Relena, had been raised by Thomas Darlian as his own child.

When Zechs said that Septum was one of _them_ he meant that Septum was one of the men responsible for the murder of his family – and by extension the collapse of Sanc into ruin.

* * *

While Noin and a very reluctant Zechs badgered Stevens into releasing her from the hospital and the paperwork was processed, Noin sent Trowa back to the police station to collect a spare uniform she could wear.

The realization that she had nowhere to live – she, like the other instructors, had quarters at the Academy – no possessions, and no _underwear_ had hit her hard. Her entire life had been the Academy, her definition of self and her value had all been measured by the success of her cadets. Now…

Now Zechs needed her, and she put all of her doubt, pain, and anger aside. Zechs needed her and Sanc needed her.

She had no illusions about the possibility of bringing to justice whatever terrorist had destroyed the Academy, but there was a chance, however faint, that Noin could avenge the deaths of all those innocent children under her care.

Trowa returned with the uniform just as Stevens returned with her discharge papers. She accepted both gratefully.

"I'll meet you at the station," she told Zechs, who nodded and left.

But Trowa stayed behind another moment and passed her a plastic bag.

She looked inside and discovered brand new socks, panties, and a bra that was – she was intrigued and disturbed to note – exactly her size.

"Thank you," she said to him.

It was one thing to know that she owed him her life – entirely another to know that he was her oldest friend's lover and clearly didn't realize how lucky he was to have Zechs in his life – but the fact that he had taken the time and the initiative to get her underwear after she had snapped at him meant that he was… infuriating, Noin decided.

She didn't particularly want to become involved in Zechs' love life, but it was clear that his relationship with Trowa Barton wasn't very healthy.

He held her gaze for a long moment, as if analyzing her face for weaknesses, and Noin realized that Trowa was judging her as an opponent.

She arched one eyebrow in challenge.

"Zechs is my best friend," she informed the rookie cop tartly. "And while I'm grateful that you saved my life, I'm not going to let you ruin his."

"Yes, ma'am," Trowa said, that same slight, insolent smirk on his face again. Without another word he left.

* * *

Despite the fact that she had spent the last four years at the Academy, walking into the police headquarters that afternoon felt like coming home.

The sea of faces – all faces she recognized – were a welcome replacement to the dead ones that had been haunting her waking and sleeping moments since the Academy bombing.

Of course, not _all_ of the faces were welcome.

Dorothy Catalonia wasted no time in her efforts to remind Noin that she hated her former instructor.

"Lieutenant Noin," Dorothy greeted her when she walked into the station.

"Officer Catalonia," Noin returned.

"We were all so _very_ grateful to learn that you survived the terrorist attack."

Noin arched an eyebrow at that. Her hospital room had been inundated with get well cards and flowers from almost the entire Sanc police force. The only notable exceptions to those who had sent her gifts were Dorothy and Chilas Catalonia.

"It would be such a shame to lose you," Dorothy continued. "My father and I were speaking about you just the other day."

"Reminiscing?" Noin suggested.

Dorothy's lips curled.

"Yes, you are such a credit to this precinct," Dorothy muttered. "It would be truly a shame if anything happened to you. Or to your dear friend, Detective Merquise."

With a haughty shake of her hair, Dorothy turned on her heel and marched away.

"She should just pull down her pants and piss on your shoes," a voice murmured.

Noin turned to see Hilde Schebeker standing behind her.

"Did you just insult another officer?" she demanded.

"No," Schebeker said with a firm shake of her head. "I merely offered a suggestion to make her intimidation tactics more successful."

Despite herself, Noin felt her mouth form a smirk.

"It's good to have you hear," Schebeker said with a wide smile.

The girl had been one of Noin's favorite cadets – she was smart, sensitive, and determined. Not a combination easily found in Sanc these days. Her personality and drive, combined with her looks, reminded Noin of herself, when she had been that age.

"How have you been?" Noin asked her.

Schebeker shrugged.

"I'm adjusting. It's been a tough year – first I lost my training officer, then _another_ training officer and then…"

Noin nodded.

She had gone to the Academy with Solo Ford and had actually recommended that he request Schebeker as a trainee when the girl graduated.

"And you?" Schebeker asked hesitantly.

"I'm fit for duty, and that's all that matters," Noin told her.

Schebeker nodded her head firmly.

Noin resisted the urge to hug the girl and instead looked past her at the bustle in the pen.

"Is the Chief in his office?"

"Should be. He's been getting the ATF team settled in all day."

"Excellent. Thank you, Officer Schebeker."

Noin watched the girl walk away and sit down at a desk, presumably her own, and start to go through the files on the surface.

She allowed herself a moment to appreciate that at least one of her students was alive and successful – two, she had to reluctantly add when Trowa Barton walked past her and gave her a polite nod.

Catalonia was indeed in his office and when Noin walked in he looked just as thrilled to see her as his daughter had been.

"Noin," he greeted her brusquely and reluctantly gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs across from his desk.

"Chief," she responded with only a fraction of civility.

"I thought you were still in the hospital, recovering."

"My doctor was impressed with my progress and decided I was ready to resume my obligations."

Catalonia arched an eyebrow.

"It's going to be months before the Academy is rebuilt," he pointed out.

"I know. That's why I'd like to transfer back to the precinct."

Catalonia leaned back in his chair.

He could turn down her request, both of them knew, but the Sanc police force badly needed some good PR right now.

"How many officers have died in the line of duty over the past six months?" Noin asked when he still looked undecided.

"Enough that losing the only survivor of the Academy bombing in the line of duty would crush morale," Catalonia murmured, his cold intellect kicking in.

Noin frowned. She hadn't considered that angle, but he was right.

"Sir, I'm ready for active duty and I know more about the Academy than anyone else on your force. Assign me to be the liaison to the ATF team. Please," she remembered to add.

Catalonia sneered.

They had never gotten along – Noin had refused to give his daughter any special treatment when she was at the Academy and Catalonia resented her for that, but even more for the fact that Noin, like Zechs, remembered what Sanc had been like before OZ and Romefeller.

"I've already assigned Officer Barton," Catalonia said after a moment. "After all, _he_ was useful that night. You on the other hand…"

Noin fought down her anger and resentment at that.

"You're actually going to assign a rookie as your liaison to the ATF on the violent case of terrorism this city has ever seen? Don't you think that sends the public the message that you don't really care? I wonder how the news scrolls will spin it…"

Catalonia glared.

" _Fine_ ," he snapped. "You _and_ Barton are on the case."

Noin smiled sweetly and stood up. She saluted and waited until he returned it before walking from the office.

"Oh, and Lieutenant Noin?"

She turned at the door and saw that Catalonia was smirking viciously.

"Welcome to the precinct."

"Welcome _back_ ," she couldn't help but correct him as she left.

Once she left his office Noin wandered the station aimlessly, retracing her steps down corridors she had walked years ago. Corridors that seemed emptier now, because none of her cadets would walk them again.

It took an effort to shake herself out of her melancholy thoughts, and just as she did she caught sight of Trowa Barton walking through the pen.

Noin leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.

He stopped at one of the desks, and Noin recognized it as the Schebecker's.

Trowa leaned one hip against the desk and looked towards the cops clustered by the water cooler as he casually leafed through the folders on Schebeker's desk.

His hand hesitated when it uncovered a photograph that looked like it had been folded and refolded several times.

A frown crossed his face and he pocketed the photograph before moving on.

 _Just what are you up to_? she wondered and decided to make it her mission to uncover just who Trowa Barton was and what he wanted from Zechs.

* * *

It had taken hours for Noin to be assigned an office – a private one and not a cubicle in the pen, as her rank demanded – and by the end of the day she felt exhausted, cranky, and in more than a little pain from the burns on her side.

However, the fact that she had absolutely no where else to _go_ had her lingering at her new desk.

"Hey."

She looked up to see Zechs standing in the open door of her office.

"Yeah?"

"I have a meeting tonight, and I'd like you to come with me."

She arched one eyebrow.

"A meeting?"

He nodded but didn't elaborate.

"Okay."

She stood up from her desk and he frowned.

"Damn. I forgot you don't have any other clothes."

"And my uniform is inappropriate for this meeting," she hazarded.

Zechs nodded.

"Come on, let's go shopping."

Those words made Noin drag her feet and Zechs actually had to grab her left arm and haul her from her office.

"I hate clothes shopping," she complained.

That was one of the many perks of running the Academy – she wore a parade uniform, workout clothes, or her utility uniform every day.

She had teased Zechs that one of the reasons he had made detective so quickly was an effort to be able to wear his own clothes – he still wore the uniform on occasion, but the rank entitled him to wear civilian clothes as often as he wanted to.

Unlike her, Zechs loved to clothes shop and his personal taste guaranteed that after an two hours at one of the high end fashion houses in the Core, Noin was forced to purchase a pair of three inch heels and a black velvet, long sleeved evening dress that she despised for its form fitting skirt and cleavage enhancing cut.

The fact that even Zechs couldn't keep his eyes from travelling towards her breasts as they rode the train to L3 and the location of this mystery meeting did little to appease her.

Noin didn't _do_ feminine. She didn't do pretty or beautiful or riveting – all adjectives that the salesclerk had used when Zechs made her try on the dress in the first place.

"You look fantastic," Zechs assured her as she tried to adjust the neckline.

"I hate you," she responded. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"The Circus," Zechs said after looking around to make sure no one else on the train was listening in on their conversation.

"The –you're taking me to that brothel?"

Zechs rolled his eyes at her reaction.

"Does your rookie approve of you visiting such a… wretched hive of scum and villainy?"

"He's joining us there," Zechs informed her.

Since he was being so cagey and refused to elaborate, Noin leaned back and they spent the rest of the train ride in silence.

When they at last arrived at The Circus, Zechs led Noin through the crowded first floor and to a curtained room on the second floor guarded by four burly men.

Zechs ushered Noin into the room first and she was confronted with the surprised glares of twelve men and women.

"So good of you to join us, Zechs… and Ms. Noin, I hadn't realized you were joining us this evening."

The look Treize Khushrenada sent their way as Zechs and Noin sat could have thawed a glacier.

"I hadn't either," Noin informed him before sending a glare in Zechs' direction.

Gathered around the table were the backbone of the Sanc underworld: all the major players in politics, publicity, drugs, prostitution, and guns.

And then there was Trowa Barton, seated between Une and Quinze, looking as if he felt perfectly at home.

"Hm." Treize and Zechs seemed to be engaged in a prolonged staring contest, but eventually Treize smiled and inclined his head.

"In any case, we are delighted to add you to our company," Treize assured her.

Several others at the table murmured similar sentiments, but Une fixed Noin with a cold glare.

"Well, now that we are assembled, perhaps we can discuss our recent failures." Treize directed the words in Trant Clark's direction.

"In the last two weeks how many of your establishments have been destroyed?" Treize demanded when Clark remained silent.

"Nine," Trowa helpfully supplied when Clark didn't answer.

"Nine," Treize repeated. "Which sets back our cause several thousand – if not several hundred thousand."

"And then there's the matter of the arms manufacturing in L1," Treize turned to Quinze.

"We've lost some warehouses," Quinze hedged.

"Twelve," Trowa said and Quinze sent the man a glare of pure hatred.

Noin wondered if the rookie had a death wish – why else would he be trying to show up two of the most dangerous men in Sanc? She looked over at Zechs, but his eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, as if he too wondered what Trowa was doing.

"We are losing ground. Not only are these attacks damaging Romefeller and OZ, but they require _our_ immediate actions if we want to retain any chance of taking control. The public are growing restless – the Academy disaster has created doubt about the strength and authority of Romefeller."

"Which provides a perfect opening for _us_ ," Une murmured.

"Yes," Treize agreed, "but only if we can follow through. We've noticed increased violence in every quarter of the city and L2…"

Noin had seen the news scrolls while recovering in the hospital.

The citizens of Sanc seemed convinced that the attack on the Academy had been perpetrated by L2 natives, whose hatred of the police was legendary, and there had been countless attacks on citizens from that quarter who ventured into the rest of the city on their own. This, in turn, had led to L2 gangs striking back – killing Sanc police, taking on the mercenaries who protected L1, even looting L4 mansions and inciting riots in L5. Only L3, under the iron fist of Deikim Barton's control, seemed to have escaped the recent escalation of violence.

"Maybe your new lackey has a suggestion for us?" Quinze muttered with a glare in Trowa's direction.

Treize only smirked.

"Ironically, he _did_ have a suggestion."

All eyes focused on the auburn haired man.

"The city needs a symbol. Something it can focus on that unifies the people and keeps them under control. Something to believe in. The citizens of Sanc have seen that Catalonia is powerless to protect his officers for years – but now the cadets, the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters of people from every quarter were slaughtered and Catalonia has done _nothing_. Dermail is old and out of touch – the people don't listen to him anymore, and now more than ever, Sanc needs a voice to listen to."

He was smart and he had balls, Noin had to give Trowa Barton that much.

"Then you're going to step in?" Heinz Baer, the owner of the largest Sanc broadcasting network.

"No," Treize said. "The time isn't right for that. Not yet. What we need is someone for the people to believe in… someone to calm them down and remind them to behave themselves."

Treize smiled slightly.

"We need Relena Darlian."

Beside her, Zechs tensed, his entire body going rigid at the mention of his sister's name.

"Thomas Darlian's daughter?" Clark asked in dismay. "She isn't one of us."

"Exactly," Treize agreed. "She isn't controlled by Romefeller or OZ or this organization. And everyone knows it. If she can be persuaded to save the people of Sanc and serve them, in this time of need…" he trailed off.

"It's going to take a hell of a lot of persuasion," Lon Kou spoke up. He was a member of the notorious Kou family from L5 – a family that almost rivaled the Bartons and Catalonias for its reputation of ruthlessness and solidarity.

It was clear that Kou was volunteering to the persuading, and Noin had to drive the heel of her new shoes into Zechs' right foot to keep him from speaking up.

"You can't intimidate her into this," Trowa argued. "The only reason people will listen to Relena is because she believes in what she's saying – if you damage her belief in her own importance then she will be useless."

 _That was probably the most polite way to say that Relena is self-centered and completely full of herself,_ Noin mused.

"You just have an answer for everything, don't you?" Clark muttered.

Trowa gave him a smug, superior look, but remained silent.

Une looked ready to volunteer her own services, so Noin spoke up.

"I'll do it," she said, surprising everyone in the room. "She'll listen to me. Her father trusted me and I've had some experience dealing with snotty brats," she added, thinking about Catalonia.

Her description of Relena made several people chuckle and diffused some of the tension around the table.

"Very well," Treize agreed. "Coordinate my Une. The rest of you," he looked around the table with a disappointed expression on his face, "would do well to remember that we get nowhere unless we push forward."

He waved his hand, signaling an end to the meeting, and everyone started to disperse.

When Trowa left Zechs got to his feet and followed him from the room, clearly furious with the other man.

Noin rose to follow them, but Une stopped her at the door.

"Luce, it's been such a long time since we last spoke. Why don't I buy you a drink?"

No one had called Noin that in years.

"I'm actually a little tired," she tried to demur.

Une fixed her with a hard gaze.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you get tucked in before your bedtime."

Treize laughed from his position at the table.

"Join her," he suggested, but it was clearly an order. "You two could do with some catching up."

Noin barely managed to conceal her resentment and followed Une out of the room and back to the main floor.

Une led the way to a secluded booth and a moment later a male waiter wearing only a black thong delivered two glasses of champagne.

"You're looking well," Une said.

Noin glared at her.

"For someone who just got out of the hospital today," Une clarified with a sharp grin. "I assume Zechs dressed you."

"Of course. You know I would never wear this of my own volition."

"I do," Une agreed with a suggestive tone.

Noin didn't believe in regrets – in life you acted and then you dealt with the consequences of your actions and moved on. There was no point in looking back and wishing things had been different. But she deeply regretted the very brief, very twisted relationship she had had with Une years ago.

The woman had an innate skill in figuring out your weaknesses and manipulating them to control you. On top of that ability, Une was a cruel, petty bitch who enjoyed making people bend to her will.

Noin sighed.

"What do you want, Midii?"

Une's eyes narrowed. She hated her given name just as much as Noin hated her own.

"I want to ensure Treize's victory, and I want your assurance that you will do everything in your power to make that happen."

Noin arched an eyebrow.

"What kind of power do you think I have?"

"Don't act like an idiot, Luce. It doesn't suit you and it's so boring. We both know that Milliardo trusts you above anyone else still alive."

"There's a reason why he trusts me," Noin pointed out. "The same reason Treize trusts you – I would never betray him."

"I'm not asking you to," Une said. "In fact, I'm asking you to save his life. Treize is worried that he is becoming… unhinged."

"You think he's losing his mind?"

"We think he's losing his perspective. This has been going on for months now."

Noin wondered if it could be related to his relationship with Trowa. She was suddenly struck with the thought that Trowa Barton was just as emotionally cold and collected as Une, just as intelligent, and just as likely to wind up manipulating the people around him.

"What do you expect me to do?" Noin asked.

"Put him back on the right path and keep him in line."

"Perhaps you haven't met him, but no one tells Milliardo – or Zechs – what to do. Not even your Treize."

"I know that," Une snapped. "Obviously you have to be smart about this or he will see right through you. I know you volunteered to persuade Relena to join our cause to keep me away from her and we both know why you want that. I'll allow it, for now, because I suspect Trowa Barton is correct and that forcing her to do our bidding would only backfire."

"Who is he? Trowa Barton."

Une smirked.

"A gift from Deikim to ensure he isn't entirely overlooked when the new order comes about."

When she had first read his name on the list of new cadets at the Academy, Noin had been intrigued. It was well known in Sanc that almost everyone bearing the last name of Barton was not, in fact, relating to the overlord of L3 but had instead likely been adopted into the organization. Which meant that anyone bearing the name of Barton was unquestionably loyal to the L3 quarter above all else.

But the smug look in her eyes and her choice of words meant that Une was implying that not only was Trowa Barton an L3 loyalist, but one of Deikim's infamously well trained prostitutes.

"You're joking."

Une chuckled.

"Not at all. Amusing, isn't it?" She gestured with one hand and Noin tracked her gaze to a shadowy corner of the club.

Zechs had Trowa backed against a wall and it was clear the two were arguing heatedly. A moment later, however, they were locked in a passionate embrace, kissing each other as if intent on devouring the other whole.

"Oh Zechs." She couldn't help but feel pity for him.

"Speaking of gifts," Une said and lifted her right index finger and twirled it in the air.

Noin frowned and then scowled when a woman appeared at their table.

Her hair was a riot of wild, red curls and her blue eyes were rimmed with golden mascara and eye shadow that leant her an otherworldly appearance. Her body was completely covered in a golden dress made of some diaphanous material so that every line of her body was visible.

"Treize thought you might want some company," Une said.

"Did he?" Noin turned to her with narrowed eyes. "And just _when_ did he think that?"

Une smirked but refused to answer.

"He knew Zechs would bring me tonight, didn't he?"

"Both of you are terrifyingly predictable," Une confirmed. She rose from her seat and stood beside the woman for a moment, looking her over. "Be good to her," she ordered the woman before giving her mouth a hard kiss.

Noin watched Une walk away before turning to the woman with a sigh.

"I'm not really in the mood for –"

"It's part of my job to _put_ you in the mood," the woman interrupted with a saucy tilt of her lips.

"And I'm sure you're very good at it," Noin assured her. "But I'm really not comfortable having sex with…"

"A woman? I was told you preferred women, especially bossy women."

Noin closed her eyes as an unbidden mental image of this golden woman dominating her came to mind.

"Yes," she agreed after a moment. "But I've never – I don't –"

"I see," the woman interrupted again and sat down beside Noin, close enough that their legs touched and Noin could smell the sharp, exotic scent of her perfume. "You've never been with a whore before."

"No," Noin admitted.

"Then let's just pretend that we're two lonely girls who met over a glass of champagne," the woman handed Noin her as yet untouched glass, "who just couldn't keep our eyes off each other and simply _had_ to spend more time together."

Noin's mouth felt incredibly dry.

"I don't even know your name."

"Catharine Bloom," the woman said and instead of offering her hand to Noin she reached out to trace the plunging neckline of her gown. "And yours?"

"Noin – Luce Noin," she corrected.

"Luce," Catharine repeated with a smile. The way she said the name sounded nothing like Une – instead of sounding like a curse or a trap it sounded sweet and intoxicating. "What a pleasure to meet you."

* * *

TBC

Up Next:

Trowa is put in a very difficult position…

* * *

**Chapter 9: Chapter 9**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got _Lost Dreams_ and _A Very Dark Corner_ and _Deviant_ … and _Revenant_ and _Penumbra…_ but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

A/N#3: Anonymous I wish you would sign in so I could respond to your reviews! I appreciate them, seriously, but you ask questions and I can't answer them because I can't PM you and… anyway, thank you for always taking the time to read and review.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Nine

The night of his graduation from the Academy, Trowa had celebrated by paying another visit to Dorothy Catalonia.

Still in his parade uniform from the earlier ceremony, Trowa didn't even have to put effort into disposing of the five men who guarded her door – they fully accepted his statement that he had an urgent message from Catalonia for his daughter and actually opened the door of her apartment for him.

Catalonia herself hadn't recognized him until he took off his hat, but by that point he had a gun on her and the door to the apartment secured so that the guards couldn't force their way in.

He had assured Catalonia that, unlike last time, this was a friendly visit – he was looking forward to working with her in the future and he appreciated how well she had followed his directions to stay away from his sister.

Catalonia had responded by threatening to do everything from feed her goldfish his balls to feeding them to him, to putting a gun up his ass and filling it with so much lead his prostate would explode – and enough other colorful threats in between to make it clear to Trowa that she wasn't interested in letting bygones be bygones.

So he had negotiated a truce by feeding her just enough information from the Treize Faction meetings and his snooping on Zechs to demonstrate what a valuable asset he could be to Catalonia.

She had reluctantly agreed to leave his balls intact provided he didn't step out of line and he never told _anyone_ he had managed to hold her hostage. Twice.

So now they were… extremely reluctant and very snappish colleagues.

It had been considerably easier for Trowa to secure the trust of her father – Catalonia had an appreciation for fine Cognac, and Trowa kept him supplied with enough Camus Cognac Cuvee that the Chief of Police had actually started to suggest Trowa _date_ his daughter.

Of course, he couldn't use blackmail _or_ black market liquor to win over Lucrezia Noin.

For the last ten weeks they had worked together as liaisons between the ATF agents and the Sanc police department and his former Academy instructor wasted no opportunity to give him menial tasks – he had fetched coffee for her from so many cafes all over the Core that he didn't even need to place an order now, just walk in and they handed him her beverage of choice – or put him in his place, as she saw it, by making him transcribe all of her case notes.

Trowa had a fairly good idea as to why Noin hated him – he figured that part of her resented him for saving her life when everyone else under her care had died, but the bigger issue was the fact that Zechs Merquise was madly in love with him.

And that _was_ an issue, in Trowa's mind.

He certainly hadn't anticipated the police detective developing feelings that strong or that deep for him, and while it benefitted his work as Barton's spy to have Zechs so attached to him it was starting to mess with Trowa's mind.

Trowa was a prostitute with more than a decade of work experience, but he had _never_ had to deal with this situation before. Trowa knew he was handsome and he knew that he was very skilled in bed, but he had never had a client claim he was particularly lovable – or even very likeable.

Cathy was the only person in his life that had ever felt any kind of emotional attachment towards him and for years it had been the same for Trowa.

Only now it wasn't. Not only did Trowa had Zechs in love with _him_ , but he had started to develop definite feelings for Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell.

After that disastrous dinner at Quatre Winner's house three months ago and Trowa's subsequent refusal to work for the blonde revolutionary, Trowa had only seen Duo twice. Once, barely a week after the dinner, when he had stumbled across Duo at the City Cemetery while looking for Meilin Long's grave. There was something disarming about finding Duo leaving a bunch of white flowers on her grave in the middle of the night and it had prompted Trowa to talk to him. They had found an open diner in L2 and spent the next five hours talking about absolutely nothing important to either of them – sports, traffic issues, vague childhood memories that didn't give too much away – until the sun had started to rise and Duo had given him a safe escort out of the quarter.

The second time, six weeks ago, Trowa had been the first officer on the scene at a reported apartment break-in. He had been in the neighborhood, a complete fluke, and had actually managed to arrive in time to see Duo execute the resident of the apartment, a Sanc cop with twenty years on the job and enough involvement in OZ and Romefeller dealings that even his obituary the next day hadn't been overly sentimental.

Duo had turned the gun on Trowa and had the gall to kiss him at gunpoint before slipping a cell phone into his hand and vanishing into the night.

The cell phone, it turned out, was a prepay that Quatre Winner had wanted him to have.

Despite his refusal to play the other man's game, the blonde still sent him texts with intel on the various criminal organizations in Sanc and the marginal OZ and Romefeller followers who weren't important enough to warrant police protection and that Trowa could arrest. He never responded to the texts, even when he did use the intel, and he never initiated contact.

Duo had used the phone to send him several inventive and graphic sexual propositions, and Trowa had twice given in and responded in turn, but nothing had come of it.

Trowa saw Heero Yuy almost once a week, since the tech was often called in as a consult on any case or evidence dealing with high-tech technology. They had even had lunch together, twice, after Heero had saved Trowa's computer from a virus and later helped him track a money laundering scheme.

The lunches had been normal to the point of being boring from an outsiders perspective – they didn't even really talk during them – but Trowa didn't bother to hide his comfort in the other man's presence. Heero, like Duo, like Trowa, was a dangerous predator. But he didn't view Trowa as prey, and in turn Trowa didn't feel the need to constantly be on his guard around the other man. He couldn't relax, not entirely, but he could feel some sort of comradeship with him. And he got to look at him.

So now, Trowa had to deal with Noin's quest to drive him insane, Zechs' feelings for him, and his own rather convoluted feelings for Duo and Heero.

"Hey, rookie, we need the files on Alex Smith."

 _And I have to deal with the ATF_ , Trowa thought sourly as the agent who gave him the order sneered and went back into the office suite that the agents had commandeered months ago.

Despite the fact that they had uncovered absolutely nothing worthwhile regarding the Academy bombing – and Trowa was willing to bet that since Wufei, like Duo and Heero, had agreed to Quatre's deal then there would be absolutely no evidence to find – the ATF hadn't left Sanc and showed no signs of doing so.

He had actually brought up the issue with Catalonia last week, after dropping off a new bottle of Cognac, and the Chief of Police had informed him that Septum was gathering evidence on illegal gun manufacturing in L2.

So now, Trowa and Noin were often sent on dead-end evidence gathering trips for the ATF that took them dangerously close to L2, and were just as unsuccessful as any investigation into L2 had been for the last twenty years.

Trowa found the RAP sheet for Alex Smith and brought it to the office.

He didn't bother to knock but just walked in – and was greeted with the sight of Septum backhanding a kid in a leather vest whose face looked like it had already suffered a few hits.

"It says here that he was arrested for insulting an officer a few months back… no charges… no convictions." Trowa kept his voice even and disinterested.

It had become readily apparent, the second day that ATF was in Sanc, that these men had even less concern for following the letter of the law than the run of the mill Sanc police officers. Trowa had witnessed them physically intimidate dozens of witnesses, blackmail city officials, and arrest several people on trumped up charges in an effort to turn them into informants.

"That's all we need, thanks," the same agent who had requested the file took in from Trowa's hands and tried to close the door on him, but Trowa stuck his foot out to wedge it open and forced his way inside.

He leaned casually against the door frame and waited until he had Septum's attention before speaking.

"You might not have noticed – you boys have been investigating the Academy bombing so thoroughly and efficiently after all – but things are a little tense between L2 and the Sanc police at the moment. You terrorizing a kid from that quarter who hasn't actually broken the law is going to make things worse for us."

Septum snarled.

"I didn't realize I had given the impression that I gave a shit about how things were for cops in Sanc."

"What's he done to get his ass hauled in here?" Trowa asked.

"Loitering," one of the agents offered with a smirk. "But we're willing to drop the charges if he gives us intel on the L2 gun crews."

Trowa frowned.

"He's a kid – they don't involve kids in the gun business," Trowa pointed out, wondering if these guys had done _any_ research on L2 before showing up and deciding to just go around knocking people's heads together.

The kid in question shot Trowa a look that was filled with anger and fear.

"We're not morons," Septum snapped, and Trowa had to bite back his urge to immediately retort with _could have fooled me_. "But he knows something – all of those little shitheads know _something_ – and my shining federal badge says that I can take my sweet time beating it out of him."

Septum turned back to the kid, dismissing Trowa from the discussion.

"All I want is a name, you little fuck, or a location. And then you're free to go."

* * *

Trowa went home that night to shower, eat and change before making his nearly nightly trek to Zechs' much more upscale apartment.

When he arrived it was almost midnight and as usual Zechs was awake – sitting in bed reading cold case files – but when Trowa walked into the bedroom and started to undress the blonde man stopped him.

"We need to talk," Zechs said, and his tone was serious enough that Trowa felt an immediate and acute sense of relief.

 _Thank God_ , he wanted to say and sent a mental thank you to Noin – clearly she had finally managed to convince Zechs to dump his ass and move on.

Trowa sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Okay," he said and tried to project uncertainty into his voice.

"Things have been… difficult for the past few months," Zechs began.

Trowa frowned.

"You haven't complained before. Am I doing something wrong in bed or –"

"No, this isn't about that. The sex is great. It's beyond great."

"Well, then what else is there?" Trowa asked. He had always painted himself as someone a bit superficial and emotionally void when dealing with Zechs – originally it had been an attempt to keep a distance between them but more recently it had become a crutch so that Trowa didn't have to acknowledge the other man's feelings for him.

"I know you aren't naïve. You're a prostitute, after all."

"I was," Trowa corrected, still irritated that even now, six months after he had graduated the Academy Zechs still insisted on seeing his body first and his mind second.

He had a sudden insight into Zechs' feelings for him. Noin had been it clear that she thought Zechs was in love with Trowa, a first for him, according to the cop. But Trowa now realized that while Zechs might feel love for him it wasn't the love of a man for his partner. Zechs would never regard Trowa as an equal, instead he viewed him as a dependent – a precocious child or a talented pet that he wanted to show off and keep around for company.

"You were," Zechs agreed to mollify him. "And you grew up in L3, so you understand that things don't… the system doesn't function like it's supposed to. I thought you understood that, before, and it was my fault for encouraging you to try to be a cop in the first place. You did so well at the Academy, and then when you joined the force…"

Trowa had a feeling he knew where this was headed.

"You're upset because I fought with you about releasing those drug dealers," he said.

"I'm not _upset_ ," Zechs argued, "but it took me until recently to understand just why you didn't understand why I had to do it."

It had been a costly gamble on Trowa's part – he had known, as soon as he arrested the three meth dealers attempting to sell their wares to middle school children in L5, that they wouldn't be convicted – but one that had paid off. Not only did Zechs cutting them loose prove to Catalonia that, no matter how much he hated it, Zechs _was_ a team player, but it also gave Trowa a reputation as being Solo Ford's successor.

Ever since their very public shouting match Trowa would find notes on his desk, emails on his computer, and any number of anonymous tips and intel about crooked cops on the force and misdeeds in the Core and the quarters.

The fact that he was viewed as an ass-kisser by the actual crooked cops – since, even after the argument, Zechs favored Trowa over anyone else in the department and Catalonia made no secret of his appreciation for Trowa's liquor – meant that he was safe from both sides and therefore free to operate as he needed.

"So you understand, then?" Trowa asked, wondering what exactly Zechs thought he understood. The blonde was intelligent – frighteningly brilliant at times – but his mind didn't work the same way that Trowa's did.

"I spoke with Noin. She's convinced that you're using me to… hell, I don't know – further your career? Win favor with Barton? But I realized that she was wrong – you did manipulate me into getting you into the Academy, I can see that clearly now."

Trowa suddenly had a bad feeling about the direction of this conversation and he casually shifted so that his holdout gun, situated in his left boot, was easier to reach.

"This afternoon Septum complained to Catalonia that you were too emotionally involved in the outcome of his case and had you reassigned. And he's right."

Trowa clenched his jaw against his immediate anger and started to mentally calculate how many favors he would have to give Catalonia to get back on.

"I thought the thing with the drug dealers was just you being upset that I pulled rank on you – and all this time I've been thinking that you trying to cozy up to Treize and Une and Catalonia was just your way of having insurance that you would be well-liked. But it hasn't been about that at all. You actually want to try and change things here in Sanc, don't you?"

Once again the conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and Trowa didn't even bother to hide his dismay at Zechs' question.

"I'm tired of the status quo," Trowa said, choosing his words carefully, "and I can appreciate Treize's vision for the future."

"No, you can't," Zechs insisted. "Neither can I. You suggested he approach Relena, didn't you?"

Trowa shrugged. He remembered how furious Zechs had looked at that meeting, when Treize had first announced the plan. They had fought for hours after that – both at The Circus and at Zechs' apartment – and sex since then had had a level of urgency and need that hadn't existed since the earlier days of their relationship.

"Trowa."

"Yes, I did," he admitted. "Why didn't you approve?"

"Because she's my sister and I don't want her involved in Treize's schemes."

Trowa was getting very tired of being surprised tonight.

Zechs sighed.

"I was born with the name Milliardo Peacecraft, my father was Alexander Peacecraft."

"The mayor of Sanc," Trowa remembered.

Zechs nodded.

"When he and my mother were murdered, Relena was taken in by Thomas Darlian and I went to live with my uncle in Brussels."

Trowa barely remembered the Peacecraft family – he had been a toddler when they died – but he, like most his age in Sanc, had been raised on the stories of the tragic family and the dream of what Sanc had been.

"The Romefeller Foundation took over, after your father's death," Trowa pointed out. "I doubt that was a coincidence."

"No," Zechs agreed. "Romefeller and OZ are behind his death."

Zechs regarded him levelly.

"I came back to Sanc two years ago and the only reason I am here is to avenge the death of the Peacecraft legacy." Zechs sighed. "That, and you, are the entire framework of my existence."

Which sounded like the exact _opposite_ of a breakup speech.

"Are you inviting me to join your crusade?" Trowa tried to inject amusement into his voice. "Because I don't think my hazardous duty pay covers trying to destroy OZ."

Zechs held his gaze, refusing to let Trowa distract him with humor.

"Yes," he said. "I am."

Trowa opened his mouth and abruptly realized that he had no idea what to say.

"Don't," Zechs stopped him, "don't say anything tonight. Think about it. Think about what _you_ want. We can talk more tomorrow."

Trowa nodded in agreement and then finished undressing.

He crawled under the blankets beside Zechs, and for the first night since they had begun this arrangement, he went to sleep without having to screw the other man first.

* * *

The next morning Trowa rose just before dawn and left while Zechs was still asleep.

He wasn't sure _when_ 'tomorrow' Zechs had wanted to talk, but Trowa didn't want to run the risk of it being first thing in the morning.

It was winter, and the early morning hours were bitterly cold, but Trowa welcomed the freezing wind that lashed against his face as he walked the Core streets.

He tried to reason through what it would mean to join Zechs on his quest for vengeance – take out OZ, take out Romefeller… those goals that Trowa already worked towards. But how did Zechs feel about Barton? Where did Treize and his band of soulless thugs fit into this? Where did _Trowa_ fit into it?

As if to complicate matters further, the prepay phone in his pocket beeped to signal a text message had been received.

He pulled it out.

 _You have something that belongs to me_.

Trowa recognized the number as being the one to Duo's phone and was able to let out a relieved breath.

 _You only wish you owned my ass_ , Trowa responded, grateful for the distraction of flirting with the man from L2.

 _In my dreams I own far more than just your ass_ , came the immediate response. _But I'm talking about a kid from my quarter._

So much for the flirting.

With a sigh, Trowa responded.

 _ATF picked him up. Wants him to rat on the L2 gun operations_.

 _He's a kid. He doesn't know shit about the operations_.

 _I told them_. _They think he'll give them intel on something else at least._

Trowa waited for Duo's next message, but it never came, and eventually he put away the phone and decided to go to the station and see what he could do about getting Alex Smith released.

When he arrived he tracked down Schebeker, figuring that as a native of L2 herself she might be interested in springing the kid.

"What's happening with Alex Smith?" he asked her when he found her at her desk.

She looked up at him with a scowl. Schebeker made absolutely no efforts to hide her distaste for him, and Trowa couldn't really blame her for her resentment. He had graduated from the Academy almost a year after she had but already he was treated by many on the force as a full officer and not just a trainee. He was assigned to more important cases than she was and he had the ear of Merquise and both Catalonias.

"Why don't you ask your ATF buddies. They've been grilling him since yesterday."

"Wait. They're _still_ interrogating him? As in they haven't stopped yet?"

She shot him an angry look, as if this was somehow his fault.

"Yes," she bit out. "They had to call a medic in a few hours ago to revive him."

Trowa left her to stew and went to the ATF office, only to find it empty. He tried the holding cells next, hoping that Schebecker had been wrong and the kid might be in one of them, but he had no luck there either.

He finally, reluctantly, tried the interrogation rooms. Instead of going into the rooms themselves he went into the observation rooms attached to each.

Sure enough, in interrogation room three the ATF agents were clustered a barely conscious Alex Smith.

The poor boy's face was swollen enough that Trowa doubted he could see out of either eye and his lips and nose were black and brown with dry, crusted blood.

The door to the observation room opened and Noin stepped inside.

"Oh my God," she breathed at the sight of the kid.

"Why didn't you try to stop them?" Trowa demanded.

"Me? You're the one with all the pull around here – why didn't you go running to Catalonia?"

"I did try to stop them and Septum had me reassigned because of my involvement."

Noin looked momentarily pleased at the thought of Trowa get reprimanded in any way, but her face quickly went back to a disgusted scowl when she looked at the horror scene in front of them again.

"I don't understand. What do they even want?"

"Nothing," Trowa told her. "They don't want anything – they're just making a point."

"What point is that? That they're heartless monsters? They made that point weeks ago."

"No, they're showing us who's really in charge. I doubt Catalonia appreciates this any more than you or I – but he can't step in because they have federal jurisdiction. Not only that, but I'm betting Septum is going to release the kid in another few hours – if he doesn't accidentally kill him first – without giving him any real medical attention. He'll want the L2 quarter to see what he did to an innocent boy. He's daring them to react."

Trowa's hand was practically itching to text Duo and warn him about what to expect from the kid's appearance, but he had to trust that the ruthless man was smart enough to foresee this eventuality.

Noin sighed.

"It would be so much easier to hate you if you weren't such a damned…"

"Genius?" He supplied helpfully. "Noble, mysteries paragon of virtue?"

"And humble, too," she muttered with a chuckle.

"He told me about… his family," Trowa said after a moment of watching the ATF agents work over Alex.

"And?" Noin prompted.

"And… everything bad you've suspected about me is true," Trowa confessed. Maybe it was the gruesome scene before him or just the tension of living this double – triple, no quadruple – lifestyle finally getting to him, but he wanted to tell someone at least some part of the truth. And Noin had earned it, as far as he was concerned.

"I doubt _everything_ I suspected is true," Noin murmured, "unless you're admitting to eating babies?"

Trowa glared at her.

"I don't feel… what he feels for me. I never will."

"Then walk away from him."

 _If only I could_. Trowa thought of his sister, whose life depended on Trowa's ability to gather intelligence on Zechs, Treize, Romefeller, and OZ.

"I don't feel nothing, either," Trowa said. "He's… a good man."

"The best," Noin corrected.

Trowa doubted that, but he shrugged.

"What are you going to do?" Noin asked. "Now that you know the truth about him?"

Trowa sighed.

"I guess I'm going to help him."

"Then for now, that's good enough," Noin decided. "I'm going to see what I can do about this bullshit," she said with a jerk of her head towards the interrogation room.

"Good luck," Trowa said to her and decided he didn't want to watch anymore – either way this was going to end badly – and left the room as well.

On his way back to the pen he heard a commotion at the main entrance to the station and stopped to investigate.

Duo Maxwell was standing in the Sanc police station.

Trowa had to do a double take, but the man was pretty unmistakable – as was his colorful language as two Sanc police cuffed his hands behind his back.

"You could be a little more gentle, there, buddy," Duo snarled as his arms were roughly jerked backwards.

"Search him," one of the officers instructed the other.

Trowa watched as they patted him down – Duo helpfully moaning and giving directions of 'hot' and 'cold' as they searched for weapons – and tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

Why was Duo here? What had happened? He clearly hadn't been picked up – it looked as if he had just decided to waltz into the station and turn himself over.

Trowa scowled as he realized that Duo had just sacrificed himself for Alex Smith.

One of the police officers found Duo's phone and held it out with a grin.

"I'm sure _this_ will turn up some interesting contacts," the cop muttered and started to flip it open.

The L2 criminal broke free of the hands restraining him and shoved one shoulder into the throat of the officer in possession of the cell phone, shocking him into dropping it. Before the other officer could react Duo head butted him in the nose and kicked him in the groin. With both officers out of commission, Duo proceeded to thoroughly stomp the phone to pieces.

Trowa sighed and walked over.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

Duo looked up and offered a cocky grin.

"Nothing you need to worry about, pretty boy," he assured him.

Trowa looked at the two officers Duo had ruthlessly and efficiently rendered useless and shook his head, dismayed at their incompetence and amused by Duo's tactics.

He sucker punched Duo hard enough that the braided man doubled over in pain.

"Fucking pig," Duo muttered as he tried to breathe through the pain.

With a mental apology directed to the other man, Trowa grabbed hold of Duo's braid and used it to jerk him back upright.

"You need to learn some manners," he calmly told the other man before slamming him face first into the nearest wall.

"You offering lessons?" Duo asked with a smirk and a lecherous wink.

Trowa slammed him into the wall again for good measure and then shoved him back into the arms of the two, finally recovered, officers.

"Put him in a cell – alone – and tell Merquise that he's here."

"ATF wants him first," one of the officers pointed out.

Trowa glared at the man.

"And you work for the Sanc police, which means you put him in a cell and tell Merquise _first_ and ATF can have him when we're done."

"Sure, sure, I was just saying…"

The officers dragged Duo away, but not before the braided man took the opportunity to spit a mouthful of blood onto Trowa's shoes and then grin at him.

Trowa knelt down and collected the scraps of the phone before turning to the nearest available cop.

"Call IT and have them send a tech down here. Maybe they can still recover something from this. And not that bimbo, Maggie," he added as the cop started to dial. "Get that guy – what's his name?"

"Heero Yuy?" The cop suggested.

"Yeah. Him. When he gets here send him to my desk."

Trowa pocketed the remains of the phone and drew in several deep breaths.

_Just what the hell am I supposed to do in this situation?_

* * *

It took over an hour for Heero to arrive, during which time Trowa was able to covertly watch ATF haul Duo out of his solitary holding cell and start interrogating him without Zechs or any other Sanc cop present.

When Heero arrived, looking like his nerdy IT tech by day self, Trowa felt a moment of almost tangible relief. Everything else in his life he had to struggle with on his own – but Duo's idiotic gesture was completely outside the scope of what he could handle by himself.

"This was found on a suspect," Trowa told Heero as he walked up to his desk. "Think it's salvageable?"

Even mangled as it was, Heero clearly recognized the prepay phone – Trowa suspected that Quatre had given each of them the same model – and arched an eyebrow at Trowa in silent question.

"Some idiot from L2 decided he wanted a new permanent address," Trowa muttered and then leaned in close as Heero started to inspect the remains. "ATF is interrogating him right now. If _they_ don't put him away for life then you can sure as hell bet Catalonia will lay any charge he can imagine on him."

"If they don't just kill him first," Heero muttered, his mouth barely moving as he tugged at the phone, damaging it even more than Duo had.

"Any ideas?"

Heero scowled.

"We could always kill him first, make sure he doesn't rat."

"He won't rat," Trowa snapped.

"Might be easier on him if we killed him, anyway, in that case," Heero pointed out.

Trowa tried to envision Duo's face just as brutally distorted as Alex Smith's.

"Or we could stage an escape," Heero said after a long moment.

The two men shared a look, each trying to gauge the other's possible commitment to a mission that could wind up with all three of them dead – or worse.

"I'm pretty sure he would do the same for either of us," Trowa said at last.

"Neither of us is enough of an idiot to march up to our worst enemies and surrender," Heero growled. He threw the phone back onto the desk.

"This thing is done," he said loudly. "I can't work miracles. All you cops are the same – you think that because I can fix your computers I can fix anything."

"Thanks for trying," Trowa told him.

Heero left and Trowa dumped the phone parts into an evidence bag and started to walk towards the interrogation room.

At the very least, he now had a plausible reason to interrupt.

He opened the door to the interrogation room without knocking.

The room was empty except for Duo, his cuffed hands in front of him on the table, and Septum, who looked up at Trowa with a glare.

"What do you _want_ , Barton?" Septum demanded. "You are no longer my liaison. Go annoy someone else."

Trowa tossed the evidence bag onto the table.

"His phone. IT said they can't do anything with it."

"Then thank you for nothing, Officer Dipshit," Septum snarled.

"Anytime," Trowa responded.

He chanced a look at Duo's face and the L2 man met his eyes and for just a brief second the mask he wore – the forced humor, the anger and the cockiness – vanished and Trowa could see that Duo had resigned himself to a painful death.

The second passed and Duo blew him a kiss.

"See ya later, pretty boy," Duo called after him as Trowa left the room.

Trowa walked back to his desk in the pen, mind racing over the possibilities for getting Duo out of this alive, and almost missed Schebeker escorting Alex Smith out of the station.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, catching them just before they left.

"I'm releasing the kid into the custody of his mother," Schebeker snapped, "if you don't mind?"

Trowa looked down at Alex.

"What did you tell them?"

"I didn't tell them shit," the boy spat. "I'm not a fucking rat – so leave me the fuck alone you shit eating pig!"

Schebeker snorted.

"You're practically a miniature version of your uncle," she muttered.

"His uncle?"

"Yeah, my Uncle Duo," Alex sneered. "Once he finds out what you pigs did he's going to kick your asses – all of you fuckers – and I'm going to help him this time. I'm done with this kid shit."

Schebeker shot Trowa a wary look at the mention of Duo's name.

It made sense, Trowa mused as he watched her walk the boy over to a tearful woman, that Schebeker knew Duo. After all, her first training officer had been Solo Ford and she _was_ an L2 native.

It didn't give him any reason to trust her with the other man's life, however, and Trowa instantly rejected a half-formed thought to ask for her help.

Three hours later the ATF agents finally allowed the Sanc police in to interview Duo Maxwell.

Trowa was relegated to a position in the observation room alongside Noin, Schebeker, and Dorothy Catalonia while Zechs and Chilas Catalonia sat down opposite a still unharmed – except for Trowa's initial assault – Duo Maxwell.

He wondered just what angle ATF was trying to play – for four hours they had just _talked_ to Duo? Either Trowa had severely overestimated the man's ability to keep his mouth shut or Septum had a finely honed appreciation for creative insults and L2 vernacular.

"Well, well, well," Duo said with a grin when the two men walked into the room, "we meet again. I've missed your ugly mug, Chilas. How's your daughter these days? I haven't seen her in months… is she still limping?"

Trowa could see Catalonia's hands form into tight fists, but the man managed to keep his cool.

"Duo Maxwell," Zechs spoke up, "you are wanted for…" he looked down at a printout and shook his head, "just about everything. Murder, theft, arson, blackmail, obstruction of justice…"

"But not rape, prostitution, or any drug related offenses," Duo pointed out with a superior smirk. "I leave those to the pros. And speaking of pros, I just wanted to give you my condolences on the loss of so many of your cops. It's gotta be bad for morale when these guys know that as soon as they step out on the street I'm going to cut their throats."

"Talk all the shit you want, you filthy gutter trash," Catalonia said with a sneer, "because you've killed your last cop. From now on, I'm going to make it my personal mission to get vengeance for every single cop you've killed under my watch."

"That's going to be a little difficult, chief," Duo pointed out. "I'm not a zombie – well, as far as I know anyway – so you only get to kill me once. And we both know I've killed a hell of a lot more than _one_ of your cops. Then again, so have you… maybe we should have a contest and see which of us is responsible for more deaths?"

Before Catalonia could respond, the door to the interrogation room opened and Septum walked in with a folder and a pen. He put both down in front of Duo.

"Your confession. Sign it and all charges against the boy will be dropped."

Duo picked up the pen and tapped his lip with it as he read over the document.

"His confession for what?" Zechs demanded.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Septum told him. "As soon as he signs these papers I'll take him off your hands. He's a federal witness now."

Trowa felt the acid curl of betrayal in his stomach.

Duo had ratted. And even though he had done it to save a kid, he had still given in.

 _Damn you_ , he thought angrily. _Damn you for making me care about you_.

"This looks right, except, right there –" Duo pointed to a line of text. "Sorry, those are some really fucking big words. What does that say?"

With an aggravated sigh, Septum leaned down to read the page to Duo.

But as he did so, Duo threw his arms up and grabbed Septum in a chokehold. With a single twist he snapped the man's neck and let his body drop to the floor.

In a matter of seconds Duo had launched himself across the table at Catalonia, the pen still in his hand, and he plunged it into the man's neck repeatedly until Zechs managed to pull him off.

Trowa was the first to recover in the observation room and he rushed into the interrogation room, gun drawn and instantly trained on Duo.

Dorothy Catalonia rushed in after him, followed closely by another cop, Mueller.

Mueller knelt down beside Catalonia and pressed his hands against the tide of red on the man's throat.

"You _monster_!" Dorothy shrieked and pulled her gun out.

"Officer Catalonia, put your weapon away," Zechs counseled in a commanding voice. He had his forearm wrapped around Duo's neck and the other pinning his arms to his sides.

Judging by the look on Duo's face, however, Trowa was confident that Zechs could just release the man and he would sit back down at the table.

Trowa put his own weapon away and advanced on Dorothy slowly.

"Dorothy, put your gun _down_!" Zechs snapped when her finger started to depress the trigger.

It looked like she either couldn't hear him or had simply decided not to listen, so Trowa used his shoulder to shove her aim wide of both men and then rested the gun from her hands.

Zechs shot him a grateful look.

Two EMTs rushed into the room and pushed Mueller away from Catalonia's body.

Trowa was mildly amused that no one had bothered to even check on Septum. He knelt down beside the man and checked for a pulse.

"Dead," he said to no one in particular.

"This one too," one of the EMTs announced.

With an animal wail of rage, Dorothy launched herself at Duo.

Trowa moved to intervene, but Mueller shoved him away.

The woman pulled out her baton and started to beat Duo with it, a few of the blows landing on Zechs before the blonde man wrested it from her grasp and tossed it aside.

"Mueller!" Zechs shouted. "Get her out of here!"

The cop reluctantly pulled Dorothy away and led her from the room.

"Help me take him back to a cell," Zechs said to Trowa. "You two – take care of this… mess," he instructed the EMTs.

Trowa grabbed Duo's left shoulder and arm while Zechs kept a firm grip on his right side.

Once they had the L2 native safely locked behind bars Zechs turned to Trowa.

"Post a guard on his cell – as soon as word gets out about Catalonia we are going to have a shit storm on our hands."

"Of course," Trowa said.

Zechs spared Duo a glare.

"Satisfied now?" he demanded.

"Not even close," Duo informed him.

Zechs sneered and stalked off.

Trowa frowned as he looked at Duo.

Dorothy had managed to do some damage with her baton – there was a wide cut above his left eyebrow, his lips were split, and blood tricked from his nose.

Duo lay down on the bench in the middle of the room and put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, shutting out the world.

* * *

Trowa had pulled the few cops he trusted on the force to stand guard on Duo's cell over the next few hours and had quickly learned that he shouldn't have trusted _any_ of the cops on the police force.

Word of Catalonia's brutal murder spread quickly in the precinct, and when Trowa stopped by the cell to look in on Duo two hours later the door was open and seven cops were in the process of beating the living hell out of Duo.

Trowa wasn't at all surprised to see that Mueller was the ringleader of the bunch – holding Duo's arms high over his head and offering encouragement to his cohorts as they lashed out at the helpless man.

Duo, of course, was taunting the cops, until one of them landed a blow hard enough to actually knock him unconscious.

"Get out," Trowa ordered them as Duo's body slumped in Mueller's grip.

They turned at the sound of his voice.

"We don't take orders from you," Mueller sneered.

"But you do take them from _me_ ," Noin snapped from behind Trowa. "For the time being, Detective Merquise and myself are the ranking officers in this precinct. Put the prisoner down and get out of his cell _now_."

They reluctantly followed her orders and Trowa locked the cell behind them.

"Never a boring day in Sanc," Noin muttered and walked away.

Trowa divided his attention between the cops who walked back, eager to get a glimpse of the damage Mueller and his crew had done, and Duo, who seemed to be slowly regaining consciousness inside the cell.

"Damn, Core hospitality is _not_ what it used to be," Duo muttered when he finally sat up.

He looked considerably the worse for wear – his face a mass of open cuts and swollen skin and the way he gingerly sat down on the bench told Trowa that he likely had several broken ribs, maybe even internal bleeding.

Trowa tried to plan a course of action. He would have to spend the night here, at the station, watching over Duo. That much was clear. But after that, Trowa had no idea how to extricate the other man from this.

His phone beeped at him.

 _Power outage in ten_.

The message was from Heero.

"Your boyfriend calling you?" Duo sneered.

"Just to see when I'll be homw. But I'm leaving in ten minutes." Trowa held Duo's gaze until he was sure the other man understood his meaning.

"Leaving? Already? Who the hell is going to keep me company all night?" Duo whined.

Trowa just shook his head and walked away from the cell – far enough that he could look over the pen but close enough that he would know if more cops had decided to treat Duo to their own version of Sanc justice.

He tried to figure out just how he could use the power outage to get Duo out of the building – the holding cells were easily eighty yards away from the front entrance and they would have to go through the pen to get there. Trowa didn't know how long this blackout would last, but he doubted it would be long enough to navigate that distance with an injured Duo without anyone noticing.

Maybe Heero wanted to revert to Plan A and just kill Duo instead?

As Trowa mused over the possibilities he noticed a cart piled with computer parts making its way through the pen. The top was littered with motherboards and other scraps while the bottom of the cart was filled with a large cardboard box labeled 'datacards' in a barely legible scrawl.

And pushing the cart… was none other than Heero.

Their eyes met briefly and Trowa couldn't help but smirk, just a little, at the inventiveness of the other man.

All he needed to do was get Duo to the cart, he was sure, and Heero would handle the rest.

He walked back to the cell and found that Duo had started to sing 'Kumbaya.' He rolled his eyes.

"I thought you were out of here," the braided man interrupted himself.

"Soon. I want to make sure there's someone here to watch you."

"You don't know what you're missing out on," Duo purred.

"I'm sure I'll survive," Trowa responded drolly.

And then the lights went out.

Working quickly, Trowa opened the cell door and jerked Duo to his feet.

"I've got him," he heard Heero say in the pitch blackness of the corridor.

Trowa released his hold on Duo and listened intently for the sound of their footsteps as they disappeared.

He felt around in the darkness for the open steel door of the cell. Once he had it gripped between his hands he took a deep breath and slammed his own head against it as hard as he could.

When the lights came back on seconds later, Trowa struggled to his feet and swiped at the blood streaming down his face.

Zechs was the first to think of checking on Duo, and when he saw Trowa, wounded and staggering upright, he swore.

"Shut down the station!" He ordered and darted towards the pen.

Trowa followed him at a slower pace, impressed by the force of the blow he had dealt himself – walking in a straight line was a bit of a struggle and the walls seemed to be tilting slightly.

The pen was a mess of frantic activity as Zechs ordered everyone to search for the escaped prisoner, but the IT cart was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Up Next:

Heero makes a tragic mistake.

…and I go back to work after my week-long vacation. So the 'lightning updates' are about to slow down… and I'm probably going to go back to rotating updates on all of my works in progress. Probably, this fic really has me locked in.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Chapter 10**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm feeling awfully inspired to write some kind of riff on _The Hunger Games_ trilogy. Anyone interested in reading something like that? _After_ I finish _Deviant, Corner, Virtue_ , _Dreams_ and _Revenant?_

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Ten

Heero spent his lunch break reading over the morning edition of _The Daily News_.

It had surprised him, weeks ago, when Wufei had started to use his position as assistant editor to insert articles and opinion columns that, very subtly and very subversively, started to challenge the dominance of OZ and Romefeller over Sanc.

He hadn't thought much of the Chinese man the night he had met him – anyone who killed that many innocent people with so little provocation was mentally imbalanced or allowed himself to be overwhelmed by his emotions. Heero had little patience for either condition.

But Wufei had proved to be invaluable to Quatre Winner's quest to rid Sanc of the evils that plagued the city. Because of his paper and the articles being printed, Travis Heberfeld, the man who had replaced Ken Tsubarov as City Treasurer, had been removed from office after a popular outcry from the citizens of Sanc. The office was now held by Leia Barton.

Heero wasn't so sure that putting a Barton in power was a step up from an OZ or Romefeller puppet – but it was at least a lateral step.

In the two weeks since Duo had murdered Catalonia and Septum in police headquarters, Sanc had been in an uproar, and Wufei had made every effort to publish as many accounts of police brutality and corrupt judicial processes as he could.

The police had immediately launched a veritable invasion into L2, searching for Duo and trying to cause as much damage as they possibly could to the already decayed quarter. Most of Sanc seemed content to turn a blind eye on the crimes the police had committed as they searched for Duo, but Heero had noticed that more and more there were letters to the editor in _The Daily News_ that seemed to question the morality of the men in uniform just as much as they questioned a vigilante like Duo.

It was bold and dangerous for Wufei to print the letters – but it made Heero respect him, at least a little.

Today's paper was just more of the same – although there was a long article about Ben Noventa, the City Manager, and his plan to reform the L2 quarter. Noventa was something of a wild card. He was a high ranking member of Romefeller, but he didn't share much of their politics. Instead, he seemed focused on trying to reform Romefeller from within – often fighting against Romefeller efforts to divert city resources to criminal activities.

But the fact of the matter was that he _was_ part of Romefeller, and he was on the list that Odin had provided Heero with, years ago, of men who had to be eliminated if Sanc were to ever recover.

Noventa might be the least dangerous man in Romefeller – but he was still a snake and he still profited from the misery of others.

After lunch, Heero returned to his office and spent hours glaring at his computer, until his prepay phone beeped, signaling a message.

_I need DM's address._

The text was from Trowa, and it didn't take Heero long to figure out why the cop might want the location of Duo's safe house.

The riots were worse now than they had been the day after Catalonia and Septum's murders, when a group of police had charged into L2 first started to arrest whoever they could find that might know anything about Duo. In the two weeks since there had been multiple causalities each day – almost all civilians – as the Sanc police ransacked the quarter. It had become increasingly obvious that the police was almost as interested in punishing the people of L2 for Duo's existence as they were in possibly finding the escaped criminal.

It made sense that Trowa wanted to find Duo's safe house. Destroying it would not only give the Sanc police a much needed victory but it would help Trowa's shaky footing at the police department after Duo's escape and the subsequent censure Trowa had faced for it.

Still, Heero hesitated before sending him the address. It was necessary, but it also felt wrong – as if Heero and Trowa would be destroying part of Duo with this act.

In the end, however, common sense won out and he sent Trowa the address.

* * *

He was leaving the office when his prepay phone rang. The only person who ever used the phones to make actual phone calls was Quatre. Heero had never even heard from Wufei through the phones. Both Trowa and Duo preferred to text – Trowa only ever when there was an urgent matter and Duo, it seemed, whenever he felt particularly lewd or annoying.

"Yes," Heero answered after stepping into an empty office and closing the door to ensure privacy.

"How is Duo these days?"

Heero frowned at the reminder that Quatre was now his keeper and that it was at Quatre's instruction that Duo had been Heero's houseguest for the last two weeks.

"Almost healed," Heero said shortly. He didn't feel the need to extrapolate on Duo's frustration and anger over the backlash his actions had created for L2 or the man's desperation to fight back. Quatre didn't need to know that information, and for some reason Heero felt an urge to protect Duo's privacy.

"Good. Look, we need to meet again soon and start looking at the big picture. These small actions have been useful, but now that Relena is acting as some kind of spokesperson for Romefeller we need to figure out a new strategy."

The day after Duo's reckless acts of vengeance, Relena Darlian had stood on a podium beside Dorothy Catalonia and Treize Khushrenada and declared the entire city of Sanc to be in a state of morning. She had called for the citizens to band together and put an end to the violence and bloodshed that terrorized the city and to trust in each other for the hope of a new future.

It had been a brilliant move – Relena's solemn words, her recent status as an orphan, and her glowing idealism had moved the people of Sanc in a way that Romefeller strong arming never had. She had lent the shady organization a bright spot to focus attention on.

In a dark twist, Duo's actions had served to make Romefeller and OZ stronger now than they had been before – simply because now the people of Sanc had Relena Darlian to look at.

"I'll let Duo know."

"Have you seen Trowa? Will he –"

"He's not interested," Heero interrupted, tired of Quatre's repeated attempts to use Heero to draw Trowa into his schemes. The other man had made it very clear, during one of their run-ins one night destroying Core meth labs that he had no interest in being the slave of yet _another_ master. It had made Heero wonder just how deep Trowa was involved in OZ and Romefeller politics – it was clear that he was close to Merquise, and Merquise was close to Khushrenada, who was at the heart of OZ.

Quatre sighed.

"Not yet," he grumbled. "Tell Duo to sit tight for a few more days. We just need to think of a way to resolve this conflict in L2."

Heero didn't bother to let Quatre know that Trowa seemed to have already found a way to do that.

He could appreciate the blonde man's brilliance and scheming, but he didn't trust him.

It was strange, but Heero found himself trying to build a wall between Quatre and Duo and Trowa, trying to keep the other two men removed, even though Duo was as much a participant in Quatre's plans as Heero himself.

He hung up, not bothering with pleasantries, and headed home to Duo.

* * *

Heero opened the door to his apartment and could instantly sense that something wasn't right. He drew his gun and set down his jacket and briefcase, keeping his hands free.

He kicked his door shut and stepped into the hallway leading towards the main living area.

There was just something about the air that made Heero feel tense and _wrong_.

The low hum of voices indicated that the news scrolls were on. Duo seemed to be as addicted and disgusted by them as Heero was himself. For the last two weeks, Heero had come home nearly every night to find them on – even if Duo wasn't watching them.

But Duo's presence hadn't affected Heero like this – not even that first day, when he had come home and found Duo examining his entire, very hidden and very locked, gun collection. The level of tension Heero felt now was akin to being on a mission.

He stepped into the living area and almost dropped his gun.

Duo was sitting on the couch, his long hair damp and loose, dressed in only an A-shirt and boxers. It was the closest to naked Heero had seen him since bringing Duo home that first night and stripping off his clothes to investigate his injuries. Despite the fact that they had come incredibly close to having sex – close enough that the sensation of Duo's hot mouth sucking his penis haunted Heero's dreams – the long haired L2 native was incredibly modest. Heero doubted it was because he was ashamed of his body – he was in excellent shape, and the scars he bore were a testament to his survival skills – but was sure it had more to do with his tattoos and the reverence L2 placed on them.

His face looked infinitely better than it had two weeks ago. Most of the small cuts where his skin had opened from the force of the punches from Sanc police were nearly healed. The swelling on his face had gone down after the first few days, and now there was only the faintest hint of yellow and violet around his eyes, the last of his bruises to heal.

But it wasn't the sight of a nearly naked Duo that had Heero doubting his sanity.

It was the sight of Odin Lowe sitting in the armchair beside the couch, still dressed in his work suit and tie.

There was a gun on the coffee table between the two men that Heero recognized as Odin's, but it was the only weapon visible.

"What are you doing here?" Heero asked.

Odin arched an eyebrow.

"I was following up on a hunch of mine." He glanced towards Duo, still stretched out on the couch, a sneer twisting his mouth.

Heero's mouth went dry and he felt his heart rate accelerate.

Odin had always despised the L2 quarter. Heero had listened to lectures about the general uselessness of the quarter's inhabitants since his childhood. Odin hated the justice system they created for themselves, hated their isolation and insularity from the rest of the city, hated the weapons manufacturing, hated the low-end prostitution and even lower end drug operations. He also hated tattoos. Heero vividly remembered a day, when he was nine, and Odin had caught him staring at a man sporting the Kanji symbol for fire tattooed on his forearm. That night, Odin had carved the symbol into Heero's own forearm, cutting deep enough that even now Heero could trace the faint outline of it. Odin hated the externalization of anything – especially of emotions and personal opinions. Tattoos were just an extension of that. He despised body modification of any kind.

But it wasn't only that that sent a thrill of terror through Heero.

Odin had to recognize Duo's face from the wanted posters plastered all over the city and on nearly constant scroll. He had to know that this was Duo Maxwell. And to Odin, Duo Maxwell was an annoyance and an obstacle that interfered with his plans for Sanc.

Which begged the question – why was Duo still alive?

Odin had clearly been here for some time – so why hadn't he just killed Duo?

"At least now I have an explanation for your recent distracted behavior," Odin said and crossed one leg over the other in a feigned, casual pose. "Is this diversion going to result in more –"

"He isn't a diversion," Heero bit out angrily.

"I never realized your… tastes strayed in this direction."

Heero swallowed hard and held Odin's gaze.

Of all of the issues to deal with right now, coming out to his father was Heero's absolute lowest priority. He simply wanted to ensure that he and Duo managed to stay alive.

Odin sighed and leaned back in his chair.

Duo was being amazingly silent, and despite the fact that his facial expression conveyed an intense desire to rip Odin's throat out, he seemed content to remain on the side lines of this conversation.

Odin transferred his gaze to Duo and the two glared at each other for a long moment before Odin shook his head and stood up.

Heero watched as his father picked up his gun and tucked it into the back waistband of his pants before smoothing down his suit jacket.

Odin walked over to Heero.

"See to it that your… activities don't pose a threat to your work," he said before walking past Heero.

A moment later the front door closed behind him.

"Who the _fuck_ was that?" Duo practically exploded a second later. He jumped up from the couch in a furious bound.

Heero frowned.

"What happened? How did he get in?"

"The hell if I know – I was taking a fucking shower and all of the sudden there's a fucking gun pressed against the back of my head. Asshole wouldn't even let me put real clothes on," Duo added in an undertone.

Heero frowned at the mental image of his father ambushing Duo in the shower. He had programmed the codes for all of the locks in the apartment himself. There was no way Odin should have been able to get in so easily. His hacking skills were nowhere near as refined as Heero's.

There had to be something else, then. Some kind of override? But Heero had chosen this apartment building both for its security and privacy measures but also because the superintendent hated Sanc politics. He never would have given an override code to anyone –he charged a fortune in rent so bribing him wouldn't change anything.

Heero closed his eyes as he realized that Odin had likely tortured and killed the man. Which meant that Heero would have to move.

He sighed.

"Seriously, who the hell was he?" Duo repeated his earlier question and Heero could see that he was genuinely rattled from the encounter.

"Did he do anything to you?" Heero had never seen Duo express even a hint of fear – not the night they first met, not the night Heero had held him at gunpoint in an alley, not the even the night of his escape from the Sanc police station. He had somehow assumed that Duo was immune to fear.

"Absolutely nothing," Duo responded immediately. It was a firm reminder that whatever relationship they had wasn't strong enough for either to trust the other completely.

"He's the most sadistic man I've ever met," Heero countered. "He had to have done _something_ to you."

"He didn't do anything," Duo insisted.

"Then what did he say?"

Duo swallowed hard and Heero knew he was on the right track now. It made sense – even in his current state and with bruised ribs still slowing him down, Duo was deadly. Odin wasn't stupid enough to engage in a physical fight with a younger, healthier and stronger opponent. But Odin could cut just as deeply with words as with a knife.

Heero sat down and put his gun on the coffee table.

Duo shook his head firmly and Heero knew that he was unlikely to ever hear just what Odin had said to Duo to upset him so thoroughly.

"Who was he?" Duo asked yet again.

"My boss. My father."

Duo arched an eyebrow.

"Family business?"

"Something like that."

"Jesus Christ, I can only imagine how warm and cuddly your childhood was," Duo muttered.

Heero found himself nodding in agreement. He imagined that Duo's childhood hadn't been much better, but he doubted the other man would appreciate the comparison.

"Does he stop by often?" Duo shook his head. "Christ – this definitely means it's time for me to go home."

Heero frowned.

"Quatre said –"

"Quatre can say whatever he wants to. I'm not going to sit on my ass any longer. And I'm sure as hell not going to hang out and wait to get jumped by that scary mother fucker again."

Duo started towards the bedroom, and Heero followed him.

He hadn't even _wanted_ Duo to stay with him at first. He resented having to accept orders from Quatre, now that he had agreed to work for the blonde man, but being told to keep Duo safe while he recovered was worse than any of the other tasks Heero had yet been assigned. It didn't even have anything to do with Duo – in fact, the other man had been just as resentful of the arrangement as Heero – and everything to do with the fact that Heero was a loner and wasn't comfortable sharing his personal space with a near stranger.

It didn't matter that the stranger was someone that Heero wanted to sleep with – it didn't even matter that it was disturbingly easy to get along with Duo as a roommate – it still wasn't Heero's choice.

Now, however, as he watched Duo dress, he felt depression settle on him.

"I'm sorry," Heero said as Duo stepped into a pair of jeans.

"Nope. My fault for letting my guard down." Duo shrugged. "I just kind of got used to this place."

He started to pull on a hooded sweatshirt when the chime of a breaking news story sounded from the scrolls.

Duo frowned at the sound and walked back into the living room and Heero reluctantly followed him.

Between the events that Quatre orchestrated, Heero's own activities, Trowa's activities, and the near nightly news stories about riots and police brutality in L2 the sound of the news chime had become routine.

Still, Heero felt confident he knew just what breaking news story was being displayed on the scrolls now, and he wasn't very eager to see Duo's reaction.

Sure enough, footage of the wreckage of the church in L2, now nothing more than a blackened crater, was flashing across the screens.

Duo's face was pale and slack, his mouth slightly open and a look of surprised horror in his eyes.

The broadcaster started to describe the heroic efforts of Officer Trowa Barton, who had tracked down the 'infamous criminal' Duo Maxwell and managed to destroy his safe house _and_ kill the criminal.

Heero frowned at that, wondering how Trowa had managed to stage Duo's death without raising a few eyebrows at the same time.

The broadcaster went on to mention that Officer Hilde Schebeker, herself a native of L2, had been instrumental in taking out Duo and ensuring that the people of Sanc could, at last, sleep well.

Duo slowly turned to Heero.

"You son of a bitch," he said, his voice nearly breathless. "The two of you planned this, didn't you?"

Of course Duo would figure out that Trowa had to have gotten the address from Heero.

"It will put an end to the riots and the casualties. The police raids –"

"Will fucking continue. All this does is kill _me_. Do you know what that means? That means that the Sanc police can do whatever the hell they want to L2 now. It means those fucking outsiders can push in and – _fuck_!"

Duo clenched his fists together and drew in several ragged breaths, his attention focused back on the scrolls.

"Fuck," he said again and angrily zipped up the sweatshirt. He shoved his long, loose hair under the collar and pulled the hood over his head. He started towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Heero followed him.

"To L2. I need to see Howard."

"Duo – you're _dead_."

"Exactly. No one will be looking for me now." Duo grabbed the spare gun Heero kept by the door, shoved it into the back of his jeans under the sweater, and was gone.

* * *

After a long internal debate, Heero texted Trowa his home address.

He hated having so many people know where he lived. But now that _Odin_ knew, Heero had to move – so it didn't really matter if Trowa knew.

Then again, he actually trusted Trowa, just as much as he trusted Duo, not to kill him or betray him.

Almost two hours after Duo had left, he heard knocking on his apartment door.

Gun in hand, Heero opened the door to reveal Trowa, out of uniform and looking haggard.

Heero let him in and locked the door back before setting his gun down.

"Is Duo here?" Trowa asked.

They had met for lunch three times since Duo's escape. Trowa knew that Duo had been staying with Heero and asked, every time they saw each other, how the other man was recovering.

"No. He saw the news."

Trowa winced.

"It had to be done," Trowa said. It was a statement of fact, not an effort to defend himself, and Heero nodded in agreement.

"It was still wrong," Trowa added with a sigh. "He's going to hate me for it."

"Us," Heero corrected. "He knew I gave you the address."

Trowa massaged his forehead.

"There go my fantasies of a threesome, then," he muttered.

Heero laughed at the unexpected joke, until the serious look on Trowa's face made him realize that it hadn't been a joke. He shook his head.

"You too?"

Trowa shrugged.

"Not my fault the two of you look like you do and act like you do."

Which was exactly how Heero felt about Duo and Trowa.

"Hungry?" Heero asked as he started to feel the earlier tug of depression again.

Trowa frowned slightly but then nodded.

Heero led him towards the kitchen and gestured for Trowa to take a seat at the bar counter while he searched through his fridge for something to cook.

"Nice place," Trowa remarked.

"It was," Heero agreed, thinking about how cold and angry he had felt to walk in and see Odin sitting beside Duo. "I'm moving."

Trowa didn't question him, and Heero allowed silence to fall between the two of them. Their lunches were often like this – neither man was particularly chatty or as outgoing as Duo – and Heero was comfortable with the silence and the solid presence of the other man.

He put on some rice and started to sauté chicken and vegetables before he thought to ask Trowa more about the church.

"How did you kill Duo?"

Trowa shook his head.

"Not my idea. It was Hilde's – I never should have let her in on it."

Heero arched an eyebrow, surprised. He had seen the female cop a few times – the most memorable occasion being the day she and the now deceased Meilin Long had eaten lunch a few feet from him and brazenly discussed their plans to save Sanc – and his only opinions of her were that she was idealistic and stupidly naïve.

"It'll hold up," Trowa said. "We're going with the story that we were investigating the premise, were jumped by Maxwell, had a firefight in which he and Hilde were both injured, and just managed to escape before the booby traps he had rigged blew up and destroyed the place – and killed him in the process."

"Is there a body?"

Trowa nodded.

"There aren't any dental records on Duo, so… we just found a body of the right size, weight, and age."

"What happens when Duo decides he doesn't want to be dead anymore?"

"Hilde will lose her job and I'll probably be found dead a few days later." Trowa gave his prediction in a sober voice, as though he had already resigned himself to that fate.

Heero tried to think of any alternatives – but Trowa was right. The Sanc police would know immediately that Trowa had been lying, and no doubt Merquise and Khushrenada would see it as a betrayal. It was ironic that in staging Duo's death, Trowa had in fact signed his own death warrant.

They ate in silence, Heero standing in the kitchen and balancing his plate in one hand while Trowa sat at the counter.

Heero had a dining room, but he didn't use it often and Trowa didn't seem to mind the strange eating arrangements.

The front door opened, and Heero found himself tensing in anticipation.

He doubted that Odin would be back to pay another visit, but then he had never figured him on paying a _first_ visit.

He saw Trowa unobtrusively reach towards his gun and he fought back a smirk. It felt good to be away from the sheep and with his own kind, Heero reflected.

Duo stepped into view. He had taken off the hoodie and was now just in the jeans and A-shirt, his hair still freely hanging down his back.

Heero abruptly realized that he hadn't actually seen it down before – earlier he had been too focused on Odin and then the news to even really notice it – but it was longer than he had thought it would be. It reached down to hips in heavy waves. Heero had always thought that Duo looked dangerous, but the sight of his hair down like that and the grim expression on his features made Heero think of a fallen angel.

Duo looked from Heero to Trowa and shook his head slowly.

"You're an idiot," he said to Trowa.

" _I'm_ an idiot? I'm not the one who turned himself in and then assassinated two people in a police station."

Duo crossed his arms over his chest.

"No, you're the one who faked my death. The minute the cops realize I'm alive you're dead, you get that, right? So what the fuck was it for? To cement your place as Zechs Merquise favorite ass kisser? You're already a fucking hero after the Academy – did you really need to do this too? Did you need a raise or something?"

"This had nothing to do with me," Trowa quietly assured him.

"Oh really? Because it sure as hell looked like it! I saw your face all over the scrolls tonight! Once again, Officer Trowa Barton swoops in to save the day! And don't even get me fucking started on you _shooting_ Hilde to make your story more exciting. I cannot fucking –"

"We did it for you," Trowa interrupted angrily. "Hilde asked me to shoot her. We did this for you."

"How the fuck is destroying my _home_ for me? That was all I fucking had! Everything! That church –" Duo caught himself and shook his head. "This wasn't for me."

"You're the only one of us who doesn't have to finish this," Trowa insisted.

Heero frowned and looked over at the other man.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Duo demanded.

"Heero, Wufei, Quatre – they can't walk away from this city or this fight. I can't either. But you can. You're right, you don't have anything left now. No reason to stay. You don't have to protect L2, you've gotten your revenge for Solo's death. You can walk away from this now. Just walk away."

Heero knew he looked just as shocked as Duo did.

Of all the possible motivations for Trowa destroying the safe house, Heero had never considered that one.

Trowa had been trying to free Duo.

"You're an idiot," Duo said again, with more conviction.

Trowa started to speak, but Duo jumped in, his voice loud and angry.

" _You_ can't save me from this. Solo's death isn't the reason I fight OZ and Romefeller. I don't _protect_ L2 – that quarter protects itself. I do all the dirty work no one else does because I _can_. Because I have _nothing_ but death in my life. I can't walk away, Trowa. There's nowhere to walk _to_."

Duo gave a bitter laugh.

"Maybe Wufei has the right idea. The only way this city is ever going to survive is if it's burned to the ground."

He sighed and turned to the windows that looked out over the city.

"I spoke to Howard. I've been excommunicated. They voted last week – if I show my face in L2 again I'm a dead man. An _actual_ dead man," he added with a sneer in Trowa's direction.

"All the more reason for you to go," Trowa said.

"Why don't _you_ go. You're smart, you're determined – and your good buddies on the police force are going to eviscerate you when they find out I'm still alive. Why don't _you_ walk away while you still can?"

"I can't," Trowa snapped. "I'm tangled in this web and I'm going to die – why the hell can't I just save _someone_ from this first?"

Heero frowned at the words and the desperate note to Trowa's voice. He shared a concerned look with Duo.

"Trowa."

The green eyed man looked over at Heero and he had gone from looking haggard to stricken.

"Who are you trying to save?"

"Everyone. No one," he added and shook his head.

The green eyed man swallowed hard and rose from the counter. He walked past Duo and into the living area.

Heero and Duo followed him cautiously. Heero was willing to bet that seeing Trowa like this – nearly unable to control his emotions – was a first for Duo as well.

The tall man sat down on the floor, his back against the floor to ceiling windows, and closed his eyes.

Duo gingerly sat down on his right side, and Heero sat down on his left.

"My parents were with the circus –the first circus, down at the fairgrounds. My sister and I were trained from the days we started walking to become aerialists and acrobats. When the Barton Foundation took over L3 years ago, Deikim decided that the fairgrounds would be the perfect place for a new luxury casino and brothel. But of course no one with the circus would sell, so he burned it down one night during a performance."

Heero vaguely remembered the tragedy. He had been eight or nine at the time, and had seen the news scrolls show the destruction.

"Deikim decided to adopt all of the circus brats. He was very taken with Cathy and I. He decided that I would become a soldier in his private army – he promised that if I obeyed him and pleased him Cathy would live. So I did. I've spent the last nine years as Deikim's favorite mercenary and his most useful whore."

When Heero had tried to do a background check on Trowa, months ago when he first learned his name, he had found all information on the then-rookie cop confidential and protected by firewalls so intricate that he doubted he would be able to cleanly hack them. He could break them – but his snooping would have been traceable, and that wasn't a risk Heero had been willing to take. Still, it had intrigued Heero.

But being a prostitute wasn't a good enough reason for that kind of security.

"Recently, Deikim formed an alliance with Treize Khushrenada. Treize has decided to branch out from OZ and Romefeller and create his own faction. He wants to overthrow the government and create a new order in Sanc, with him at the head, and his lackeys supporting him. One of those lackeys is Zechs Merquise. But Treize and Deikim are both convinced that Zechs isn't committed to the cause, so I was tasked with seducing him and keeping tabs on him. For the past eleven months I've been spying on Zechs for Deikim. I became a cop so that I could keep a closer eye on him. But then he fell in love with me. He confessed his plan to overthrow OZ and Romefeller – and Treize – and asked me to help him."

"Why didn't you let Quatre get your sister somewhere safe?" Duo asked.

"I tried," Trowa said with a sigh. "Fuck, I tried. She wouldn't let me. She insisted that I shouldn't have to serve _two_ masters when one was bad enough." Trowa laughed. "She has no idea – I'm Deikim's slave and I'm Treize's slave and I'm Zechs' slave and Quatre's too, even though I said no, he can still control me. I can't do _anything_ for _anyone_ I care about." Trowa rolled his head to look over at Heero. "I tried to get you fired last week – I told Zechs you were working for OZ and that he should fire you. He actually tried to, but your supervisor, Odin Lowe, wouldn't let him."

Heero was completely taken aback by the knowledge that Trowa had tried to save _him_.

"You are an idiot," he agreed with Duo.

Trowa's lips twisted into a wry grin and he nodded.

"I know. I keep thinking I'm smart enough to see a way out. You're right. Wufei's right. It all has to burn down and no one is going to be able to escape it this time."

"Fuck that," Duo said angrily. " _Fuck that_. We can't walk away from this fight but that doesn't mean we don't have a way out. _We_ aren't going to fucking burn with the rest of them."

The expression on Duo's face was fierce, reminding Heero of the night they had met and Duo had defended the store from those street thugs, completely without fear or concern for his own life.

Duo shifted so that he was no longer leaning against the windows and instead pressed his body against Trowa's and took the other man's face between his hands and kissed him.

Heero watched, stunned and jealous and aroused.

Trowa was stiff and resistant for a moment, but then his arms wrapped around Duo, grasping fistfuls of his long hair and pulled him closer.

Heero started to push away from the window, and his movements distracted Duo.

Duo broke the kiss with Trowa and reached over, grabbing the back of Heero's neck and pulling him against their bodies.

" _We're_ our way out," Duo said just before kissing Heero.

When they had kissed before, the night of the Academy bombing, it had been dark and exciting and urgent.

Heero didn't know if it was recent events, the knowledge of Trowa's actions, or the press of both men's bodies against his own, but this time it felt deeper and somehow more right.

Duo's tongue tangled with his and Trowa's warm, calloused hands working under his shirt and running over his chest for more meaningful and more real than anything Heero had ever experienced before.

Heero reached for the hem of Duo's shirt and pulled it up, suddenly desperate to touch his body.

Duo sat back and helpfully raised his arms and Trowa took the opportunity to lean over and kiss Heero.

It was the first time Heero had tasted the other man. He was completely different from Duo. Kissing Duo was like whitewater rafting – exciting and easy to drown in. Trowa, however, was so controlled and deliberate yet no less intoxicating.

Heero found himself wondering if Trowa had been _trained_ to kiss like that and felt suddenly uneasy.

"What?" Trowa pulled away and looked at him, obviously aware that Heero's thoughts had turned dark.

"I'm not going to use you. Either of you," he added quickly with a glance in Duo's direction, hoping the other man would understand what he was trying to say.

"Fuck," Duo muttered and ran a hand through his hair. He turned to Trowa. "I didn't –"

"Did I give either of you the impression that I didn't want to do this?" Trowa demanded. "Or is it because –"

"That answers it for me," Duo interrupted and arched an eyebrow in Heero's direction.

Heero nodded in agreement and before Trowa could protest he kissed him again, burying all thoughts about Trowa's past and instead focusing on making this feel as good for Trowa and Duo as it felt for him.

He could feel Duo's hands start to undress Trowa and he pulled off his own jacket and shirt.

Trowa's hands quickly divested Heero of his belt and trousers and reached into his boxers to fondle his erection.

Heero could see Duo had worked Trowa almost completely out of his clothes as well and he watched as Duo took Trowa's erection in his mouth in one long swallow.

Trowa groaned into Heero's mouth.

Trowa's grip on Heero became more firm, and he stroked Heero almost in time with Duo going down on him and Heero was quickly on the brink of orgasm.

He broke away from Trowa's mouth so that he could breathe, and Trowa regarded him with glazed eyes, one hand still stroking him while the other was tangled in Duo's hair.

The sight of the two of them, naked bodies flushed, Duo's hair spread out _everywhere_ , was perhaps the most erotic sight Heero had ever experienced.

Trowa did something – twisted his hand in some way that sent a primal thread of pleasure through Heero – and he came with a groan.

The auburn man smirked in satisfaction and Heero kissed him again.

Trowa returned the kiss, his control and finesse slipping enough that Heero knew he was close to his own climax.

He swallowed Trowa's gasp of pleasure and felt the other man's body tense and then relax.

Heero eased away and saw Duo sit back on his heels.

The long haired man licked one corner of his mouth, the only evidence of Trowa's orgasm, and smirked.

"You can't tell me that you honestly think me walking away from _this_ makes any kind of sense," he said.

* * *

The next morning, Odin called him in to his office.

Heero walked down the hall slowly, trying to quiet his thoughts and force his worry down. He fully anticipated walking into that office and Odin ordering him to murder Duo.

Even before yesterday Heero knew he probably wouldn't have been able to kill Duo, but after last night it was impossible for Heero to even consider it.

As usual, Odin sat behind his desk and passed Heero a folder, silent and waiting as Heero opened it and took out the mission order.

He frowned at the slip of paper in his hand.

"I don't understand."

Odin arched an eyebrow.

"No? It's simple. Events have developed in such a way that the path we have followed is no longer viable."

Heero tried to follow that logic.

"Because of Duo. You think I can't carry out the mission because of him."

"I have no doubts that you are still capable of carrying out the mission. I have trained you well enough that no distraction, however… unique, would keep you from your duty."

"Then what?"

"Heero, I was the chief of security for Alexander Peacecraft. I allowed Dermail's men to kill the mayor, his wife, and it is on my head that his children's lives were ruined. For the past twenty years I have tried to keep OZ and Romefeller from completely taking over the city, and I have seen them grow more powerful with every passing year. You know the plan – you have the list. You can follow your existing orders and continue to eliminate each target on that list, all of the power players in Sanc, until no one is left and there will be a vacuum in this city that, hopefully, someone decent will fill."

"Or I can take this contract?" Heero asked, raising the slip of paper in his hand.

"It's your choice, Heero. Follow your emotions."

Heero looked down at the slip, at the name scrawled onto the thin paper.

 _Odin Lowe_.

* * *

Two days later, Heero was camped out on a rooftop across the street from Ben Noventa's office.

He still didn't know whether or not he would kill Noventa, the next name on Odin's list, or if he would kill Odin himself.

It made him nauseous just to think about killing his own father. He would never describe their relationship as _loving_ , but Odin was his mentor.

Not only that, but Odin's plan for getting rid of Sanc's elite and wiping out OZ and Romefeller had been the cornerstone of Heero's existence, ever since he was seven and Odin had given him his first target to eliminate.

Following mission orders – ticking names off the list – was the entire _point_ of Heero's life.

But the day that Heero had come home to find Odin in his apartment had started some fundamental shift in Heero's life, a shift that was given even more momentum that same night from Duo and Trowa. There _was_ more to Heero's life than the mission. There was more than obeying Odin's orders and there was more than following Quatre's commands.

 _Follow your emotions_.

It was almost the exact opposite of everything Odin had ever said to Heero, but that one order affected Heero more deeply than anything else his father had ever said to him.

Even so, Heero had decided to investigate Noventa. His background research had provided scant information – he was a high placed member of Romefeller and had served as the City Manager for the last twelve years. He wasn't as repugnant as Tsubarov, as devious as Khushrenada, or as self-serving as Dermail.

But he had allowed Sanc to falter during his tenure. He had encouraged the corruption of the city, tacitly, by refusing to fight against his colleagues.

Heero had kept up a steady surveillance on the man for the last two days – he had seen him go about his business, enjoy a family dinner with his wife and daughter, Sylvia Noventa, a schoolteacher, and he had seen him meet with Dermail.

He wasn't a good man, but he wasn't evil. His elimination, in the end, wouldn't give much of a benefit to Sanc. On the other hand, neither did his survival.

As Heero sat across the street, watching Noventa working in his office, Odin Lowe suddenly came into view.

Heero watched through the scope on his sniper rifle as Odin barged in to the office, gun drawn, and advanced on Noventa.

Heero almost wanted to laugh. Odin was _forcing_ him to choose.

Odin hauled Noventa out of his chair and dragged him to the windows, so that both men were in plain sight, and pressed his gun to Noventa's head.

The message was clear – him or me.

He focused the reticule on Odin's head, and at this distance, he didn't even need to compensate for wind and angle too much. It was an easy kill, Odin's head looming large in the scope.

Heero closed his eyes, let out the breath he had been holding, and depressed the trigger.

As soon as the bullet left the long barrel of the rifle, Heero opened his eyes and looked through the scope.

It was just in time to see the bullet impact with the side of Ben Noventa's head.

Heero had missed.

Odin stood, completely unharmed, as Noventa's body collapsed onto the ground, twitching.

For the first time that Heero could remember, Odin's face showed emotion – disgust and disappointment.

He watched his father shoot Noventa twice in the head, killing him cleanly, before he turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Up Next:

Someone falls from power…

* * *

**Chapter 11: Chapter 11**

* * *

Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N: Think _The_ _Watchmen_ but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted _Deviant_ to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like _Batman_ and _The Watchmen_. And there's a fair influence from _The Departed_ in here as well.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

**Without Virtue**

Chapter Eleven

Dinner parties were, in Treize's mind, the most eloquent torture devise mankind had ever created.

The fact that etiquette and rules dictated just who sat beside who, what you ate, _how_ you ate, and when you ate only managed to cloak the subtle torture under a thin layer of gilt.

But anyone as experienced as Treize could see right through that layer.

When he arrived at Dermail's mansion on Wednesday night, Une radiant and severe on his arm, Treize immediately knew that a trap had been laid.

Dermail had invited his regular coterie of sycophants – the few City Council members he could stomach, the top financial executives of businesses in Sanc, Treize and Une, and, surprisingly, Michael Quinze.

Quinze's occupation as a weapons manufacturer and dealer was perhaps the worst kept secret in Sanc. As much as Romefeller and OZ utilized Quinze and his private army for their business ventures, Treize couldn't remember ever seeing Quinze in the same room with Dermail in front of a public audience.

And while the audience tonight were loyal lapdogs of Romefeller, they weren't members of the organization and they weren't necessarily aware of Romefeller doing anything but looking the other way when it came to Quinze's weapons.

Inviting him to dinner was the same as sending out Christmas cards with Dermail and Quinze side by side – it linked the criminal directly to the mayor.

"What the hell is going on?" Une murmured when she caught sight of Quinze chatting up Lydia, Dermail's current and third trophy wife.

"Something very bad," Treize muttered back.

The situation became even more dire when they were seated, and Treize had to forego his usual place at Dermail's right hand when Quinze was directed there instead. Treize took his seat farther down the table, Une beside him, with good grace.

Quinze, on the other hand, sneered at Treize as he leaned over to say something to Dermail.

"How _dare_ he –"

Treize put a hand on Une's arm.

"Calm yourself. We knew that Quinze trying to win favor with Dermail was an eventuality."

"You're too brusque with him at the meetings and you favor Barton too much," Une murmured.

Treize smirked.

"It isn't _my_ fault that one is an imbecile and the other a savant."

Une's eyes narrowed, but she refrained from commenting further.

Treize managed to spend the entire meal engaged in mindless small talk with the woman sitting to his left, all the while keeping an eye on Quinze.

The unctuous man monolopolized Dermail throughout the meal, ignoring common courtesy, and several times the two men leaned their heads together to whisper and then look down the table towards Treize.

He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes – Quinze was behaving like a school girl and it was so very obvious that it grated on his nerves.

After dinner, the women retired to a sitting room while the men repaired to Dermail's library for brandy and cigars.

Treize waited until Dermail and Quinze were alone and approached the two men.

"Ah, Treize, we were _just_ talking about you," Quinze greeted him.

Treize arched an eyebrow.

"Much more interesting to talk _to_ me, I'm sure. And certainly more informative." He turned to Dermail. "I trust that everything is in order for Relena Darlian's appointment as City Manager?"

Dermail frowned slightly and Quinze openly smirked.

"Yes, well, we've been discussing that –" Treize held up a hand to silence the other man.

"I'm sorry, I thought I had clearly addressed the _Mayor_ with my question."

Quinze's eyes bulged in anger and he actually snarled at Treize.

"I've been thinking about that," Dermail said at length. "While I think the girl certainly has… spunk, I'm not sure she fits with Romefeller's political goals."

"Which is perhaps the greatest benefit to having her working _for_ Romefeller," Treize pointed out, repeating the argument he had made weeks ago after Relena he had first agreed with Trowa Barton about the girl's public relations potential.

"Except that she's a distraction," Quinze jumped in. "She's likely to just muck about with our plans – not to mention the fact that she's damned irritating."

Treize regarded Dermail with a level expression.

The last time they had spoken, Relena being named as the new City Manager after Noventa's messy murder by Odin Lowe had been a done deal. Dermail had signed off it the nomination and the necessary paperwork and speeches had been prepared.

Of course, the last time Treize had spoken to Dermail Quinze hadn't been surgically attached to his ass.

"Who, then, did you have in mind?" Treize addressed the question to Dermail, but, predictably, Quinze jumped in instead.

"Enzo Sedici," Quinze said smugly.

It took a moment for Treize to even recall _who_ Sedici was. The man was an assistant district attorney who worked for Treize, but he was one of the least competent and creative men Treize had ever met. All he ever seemed to do was take excessive notes during meetings, but he never offered any ideas for any cases and didn't even have a winning record for positive outcomes.

Treize felt a cold fury rise within him. All this time – all this time Sedici had been a spy and Quinze had been manipulating him. Quinze now knew everything about the day to day operations of Romefeller through Sedici, and through his invitation to join the Treize faction he now knew most of Treize's other plans.

"What an extraordinarily unremarkable man," Treize said lightly.

He had _never_ been this thoroughly duped.

"Still, that's likely what we need right now," Dermail added. "And Michael has some other ideas that have interesting potential."

"I'm sure he does," Treize agreed, "but I will have to hear them at another time. I promised Une that I would have her home at a reasonable hour tonight."

He bowed and without waiting for their farewell, he turned and left.

It was incredibly rude, but Treize wasn't sure he could maintain his calm, cool façade if he had to keep staring at Quinze's triumphant face.

Predictably, Une had found some excuse for herself and escaped the gathered women and was actually waiting for him at the entrance, casually interrogating Dermail's butler.

"We're going," he brusquely informed her.

Une arched an eyebrow at his tone, but silently followed him out into the night.

She remained silent as they waited for his car to pull around, and didn't speak until they were ensconced within the dark safety of the back of the classic Rolls Royce.

"Our timetable has just been destroyed," he ground out, finally able to release a fraction of his frustration now that he was alone with Une.

"Quinze?"

"Dermail is naming Sedici as the City Manager."

It took Une almost no time to piece together what Treize left unsaid.

"He's been spying on us for years. And Quinze knows everything about the Treize Faction."

"Yes, which, of course, was the plan in any case." He leaned back and sighed. "Except the trap was supposed to be a bit more complete before we sprung it on those idiots. Quinze is likely building his own army now –"

"But he will try to follow your model, correct? And that means we can still win."

"No, Quinze is a short-sighted idiot. He'll try to do the _opposite_ of whatever I suggested – or at the very least, the opposite of whatever Trowa Barton suggested. Damnit, I despise idiots. I was so sure that Trant Clark would be the first to turn against us."

"What is our next step, in that case?"

Treize nodded, appreciative of Une's focus. It would do him no good to dwell on the past now.

"We still need to make sure that Trant Clark and Quinze do _not_ form an alliance. For now we will keep up the charade of the Treize Faction – but Quinze is no longer welcome. We need to narrow this circle."

"Zechs and Noin?"

"Keep them, for now, but soon enough we will need to isolate those two as well for my plan to proceed."

"This probably isn't a good time, but I still have reservations about your plan, sir."

Treize couldn't help but smirk as he looked over at Une.

"Do your reservations have to do with its success or with its goal?"

"Sir, I have the utmost respect for you, and I completely agree that Sanc has to be destroyed – or at least brought to the brink of destruction for the city to recover."

"But you don't think that Zechs Merquise is the one to rebuild the city."

"No, sir. I think that _you_ need to do so. Zechs doesn't have your vision."

"But he does have _a_ vision, and you know, Une, that for my plan to succeed Sanc needs a villain the likes of which it has never before seen."

"We could _make_ that villain – why not use Trowa Barton to –"

"No. I cannot trust anyone besides myself to do what must be done. Trowa Barton is useful to us, but don't presume too much about his loyalties, Une. He's a pawn – a rook at best."

She frowned, and Treize knew that his words would force her to keep a closer eye on the prostitute in the future. Which, of course, was Treize's goal.

"Dermail has outlived his usefulness," Treize announced. "He will have to be removed from the board immediately before Quinze can use him to further damage our plans. Odin – damnit. It is so terribly inconvenient to have the _one_ trustworthy assassin in town dead."

"I can –"

"No," Treize interrupted. "I need you to remain above reproach. Especially since the next step, after Dermail is removed, will be _my_ removal from power. I feel that I have done as much as I can from this side of the curtain."

Une nodded, a resigned look on her face.

"Very well. I will set things in motion."

"Thank you."

He dropped her off at her apartment in the Core and had the driver wait while he tried to plan out his next move.

With Odin Lowe dead, Treize no longer had a go-to assassin, and he desperately needed one if he was going to continue to orchestrate his coup. He quickly discarded the possibility of using Trowa Barton – as versatile and skilled as the prostitute was, he was starting to be stretched _very_ thin between minding Zechs, gathering intel for Barton, and gathering intel for Treize.

But that thought led Treize to another, and he smirked in satisfaction as he pulled out his phone and started to make the appropriate calls.

* * *

This late at night the Catholic church in the Core was nearly empty, only a handful of fervently praying old ladies and drunk men decorated the front pews.

In the back, nearly hidden by the shadows, sat a man wearing a black hooded sweater. The hood draped over his face, casting it in darkness, and from this angle Treize could see nothing of his face except for the sharp point of his nose and the strong line of his jaw.

Treize sat down behind him and leaned forward, hands folded as if in prayer.

"I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised to find a ghost in this church," Treize murmured.

"Especially not since _you_ contacted _me_ ," the man muttered in return.

He cradled an open Bible in his hands, but Treize was confident that the other man had an arsenal of weapons at his fingertips, ready to attack if provoked.

"What do you want?" the man demanded.

Treize snorted.

"Death certainly hasn't improved your manners."

The man turned at that and speared Treize with angry indigo eyes.

"I merely wanted to know _if_ you were still alive," Treize said.

"Why? Our business is finished – Catalonia's dead and your puppet is in place as the Chief of Police. You got what you wanted, and Solo's dead, so you don't have anything to hold over _my_ head anymore."

"Except that I do," Treize pointed out. "As much as I do appreciate you fulfilling your end of our bargain and _finally_ killing Catalonia, I find that I still need your talents."

"I'm a dead man, Treize, I can't do anything for you."

"Oh, I think you can. In fact, I think that you dying will be the best thing that ever happened for our relationship. Before, you were a convenient and expedient way for me to have competition eliminated without it being traced back to me – and don't scowl, you got to kill off the scumbags who pollute this town so it wasn't as if you weren't getting something out of it too. But _now_ , well, now it can't be traced back to _anyone_. You can kill thugs from L2, crime lords from L5, crank dealers from the Core, pimps from L3, and gun runners from L1 and… no one will know who you are or why you're doing it. I should have had you killed _years_ ago."

Maxwell sneered.

"You're forgetting, once again, that Solo is dead. There's no reason for me to help you carry out your twisted vendetta."

"And you're forgetting, _once again_ , that I'm a genius, especially compared to the likes of you. Tell me, how long do you think it will take for someone else to draw the connection between Trowa Barton being the officer on duty when you escaped prison and him being the one to uncover your safe house and kill you?"

Maxwell arched an eyebrow.

"I'm not sure – I sort of hope someone else already has. I mean, _obviously_ the guy felt the need to prove himself after I embarrassed him so badly in front of his _boyfriend_ Zechs Merquise so… who the hell knows why he faked my death, but that was damn good detective work to find my safe house. You should keep him around – only decently intelligent guy on the Sanc police force. Maybe you should be trying to blackmail your new Chief of Police with this shit – not me."

"I fucked Solo a few times. Years ago."

He now had Maxwell's full and undivided attention.

"He was… a decent lay. Certainly not as creative or as proficient as Trowa Barton – but then, Trowa has had years of training, hasn't he? Then again, Solo had that S & M obsession – never really my cup of tea, but I can see how _you_ would enjoy something like that. Trowa has no doubt been trained for that, however – so it isn't as if Solo's death means you can't still be spanked by your lover, does it? What do you think – an honest comparison of the two, who is better?"

A muscle in Maxwell's tightly clenched jaw jumped and Treize smirked.

"I _own_ him, Maxwell. I control what he does and _who_ he does. Not only will I have him killed, but he will be tortured so horribly that he won't even remember his own name by the time I finally allow him to die."

"Again, I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to say hi, but I don't give a damn about –"

"There's only one thing that Trowa is actually afraid of, did you know that? Deikim trains these whores almost from birth and his methods are so rigorous that all defects and personality flaws are virtually eliminated. But Trowa… well, he came to Deikim a bit later in life, and some flaws are, it seems, impossible to overcome. I'm sure you've noticed, but Trowa has a bit of an attitude and a rather irritating habit of talking back to his superiors. In any case, Deikim invited me to witness one of Trowa's punishment sessions… two years ago, now? Yes, two years ago. I'll tell you, Maxwell, I've heard men scream, I've seen them cry, and I've listened to them beg for mercy – but none of that compares to listening to Trowa Barton's agony when flame touches his skin." Treize shook his head. "Obviously Deikim didn't burn him badly enough to risk damaging his skin permanently – well, except for his feet. Those…"

Maxwell turned away from Treize, but his hands were white where they clenched the Bible.

"I thought so." Treize smirked and rested his chin on his still folded hands. "Now, things are about to get a bit trickier in this game. I'll be needing you to help me clean up a few of the extraneous pieces on the board. And in return, I'll see to it that your newest lover doesn't end up like your last one."

"And his sister," Maxwell added in a low voice. "I want your guarantee that she will be safe."

Treize chuckled.

"How very touching, but I'm afraid not. _She_ is not my concern. I suggest you take her safety up with Deikim Barton – but then, if you did that, he would surely have Trowa killed for betraying him. Besides, without her I have no guarantee that Trowa will stay in line. Especially not with _your_ influence."

"So you'll keep her alive, to control him." Maxwell shook his head. "One of these days you're going to threaten the life of the wrong person and it's going to get you killed."

Treize patted his shoulder.

"Keep dreaming," he told him and stood. "I'll be in contact within the next few days. Oh yes, and I'm sure it goes without saying – but our arrangement works best if we are the only two who know about it, don't you think?"

His only answer was Maxwell slamming the Bible closed before tossing it on the pew and storming down the aisle and disappearing among the colonnade lining the vestibule.

* * *

It was after midnight when Treize returned to his apartment.

He wasted no time showering and changing into his favorite red silk pajamas and decided that, despite the lateness of the hour, the events of tonight dictated a glass of wine.

He had only managed a few sips of his favorite Syrah when the door chime sounded.

Treize opened the door and had to smile at his guest.

Even in the middle of the night, summoned without any warning, Trowa Barton looked completely unflappable and impeccable as ever.

He was dressed in a dark sweater and trousers, both some color between black and navy that seemed to reference his police uniform without being too unobvious. Even his expression was set into typically neutral lines, and there was only a hint of unease buried in his green eyes.

"Come in," Treize stepped aside and allowed the other man to enter.

Treize locked the door and walked past Trowa to sit down on the couch. The prostitute was well trained enough to remain standing and he focused his gaze on a point just past Treize's shoulder.

"Congratulations on your promotion," Treize told him.

Trowa's eyes flickered to his face, as if to judge the sincerity of the words.

Since Zechs had been promoted to Chief of Police, and with Maxwell's long standing murderous rampage against the Sanc police, the department had needed additional detectives. Trowa had been promoted over several other older and far more experienced officers.

"Thank you," Trowa eventually said.

Treize smirked and leaned back on the couch cushions.

"And how is our intrepid Chief adapting to his new responsibilities?"

Trowa gave an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

"Well enough. He's split his duties between himself and Noin – she handles the administrative work and he's still able to keep his hand in the game and control the rest of the police force. For now."

Treize arched an eyebrow at that.

"For now?"

"You know that Catalonia tainted the entire police force. He never respected Zechs and he made sure everyone else knew it. For now everyone is still running around scared shitless because Catalonia and Septum were assassinated in police headquarters two weeks ago."

"Mm. But you killed Duo Maxwell – surely they can sleep at night now?"

Trowa gave him a patronizing look.

"Maxwell was a menace, but he isn't the only one who would rather see anyone in blue six feet underground. No one in this city respects the Sanc police. It's worse, now that Maxwell is dead – the L2 quarter have been in almost constant riots and their guns are making their way into other quarters."

"It sounds like Zechs should send a taskforce into the quarter."

"That's his plan," Trowa agreed. "Of course there's no telling how many officers we would lose in such an idiotic attack. That entire quarter is armed."

"But surely you aren't afraid? You did track down Duo Maxwell in L2. Perhaps you should lead the task force?"

Trowa looked him in the eyes.

"I've asked for the honor, but Zechs seems to think I would die in the process."

Treize wondered if perhaps that was Trowa's goal – stage his own death, much like he had staged Maxwell's? It would be a clever way to escape the complicated web that trapped him.

"I have to agree – it does seem a bit dangerous and you _are_ a public figure now. Sanc would be devastated if the hero of the hour died in a slum, stained with piss."

"Dorothy Catalonia will be leading the team instead," Trowa informed him. "And I think we can all agree that no good could possibly come from that woman walking into L2 armed to the teeth."

"Yes, but we don't necessarily need anything good, now do we?"

Trowa snorted.

"No, I don't suppose _we_ do," he agreed.

Treize tapped a finger against his lips while he looked at the other man. It was clear that Trowa Barton, in allowing Duo Maxwell to live, had betrayed someone. The trick was figuring out just _who_ he had betrayed – had he done it to betray Barton or Zechs or Treize?

It was also clear that Trowa Barton was intelligent and as gifted at scheming, if inexperienced, as Treize was himself.

While Trowa was certainly useful for keeping tabs on Zechs and keeping the blonde man alive, he was even more useful and even integral for Treize's other plans.

None of that mattered, however, if Trowa had betrayed _Treize_ by allowing Maxwell to live. He wondered how the two had even met. It wasn't as if Maxwell had the connections or the currency to ever visit The Circus, and it was equally unlikely that Trowa had decided to slum it in L2. The only connection they had was the Sanc police force.

Perhaps Trowa was fast outliving his usefulness as a member of that force. Still, he had other uses, and Treize intended to benefit from Trowa's other talents before he discarded the traitor.

"I need you to arrest Wufei Chang."

Trowa frowned slightly.

"The newspaper editor? On what charges?"

Treize shrugged.

"I don't care – whatever you like – but he needs to be brought in for questioning and I need to speak with him. As soon as possible. I'm sure you can think of _something_ to bring him in for?" Treize sneered.

"Of course," Trowa said. "The investigation about the murder of Meilin Long still hasn't been closed, and he was her superior. I can bring him in for questioning tomorrow, if your schedule permits?" There was the merest hint of attitude in Trowa's tone as he asked the question.

"Was there anything else?" Trowa asked when Treize didn't speak again.

"Not tonight. Run along back to Zechs." Treize made a shooing motion with his hand and Trowa turned to go. "Oh yes, and I won't be needing your services at the Circus on Friday night."

Trowa's shoulders stiffened slightly, and Treize could practically see the thoughts going through his head as the younger man tried to figure out what that meant for his future.

"I will expect you to be waiting for me here, however, afterwards. I could do with a little relaxation."

Trowa continued to walk out, not even acknowledging Treize's last words.

* * *

The next morning, Trowa left word with his secretary that Wufei Chang was in police custody. Treize took his time in getting to the police station. He waited until the middle of the afternoon before finally showing up, and as he had predicted, Chang was furious about being detained for over six hours.

Trowa escorted Treize to the interrogation room, but when he made to enter, Treize held him back.

"I don't need you for this. Keep the observation room clear."

Trowa inclined his head, his face blank and his eyes empty.

As Treize opened the door he caught Chang mid-pace, and the dark haired man's eyes narrowed as he recognized Treize.

"Shouldn't you be out prosecuting actual criminals instead of wasting my time with these ridiculous charges?"

Treize arched an eyebrow and sat down at the table in the center of the room.

"Are you suggesting that the murderer of Meilin Long _isn't_ an actual criminal?"

Chang sneered.

"Of course not, but _I_ didn't kill her."

"Be that as it may, your recent…erratic behavior has brought you under investigation. Since her death you have been directing _The Daily News_ to print increasingly… lurid articles about the public servants of this city."

"Perhaps the public servants have been increasingly lurid in their activities," Chang muttered.

He sat down and continued to glare at Treize.

"I've noticed a pattern to your articles, however," Treize murmured. Chang's eyes narrowed further and a wrinkle formed between his brows. "You seem incredibly fixated on the failures of the City Council members and, of course, our esteemed Mayor."

"Are you threatening me? Is that what this is about? You want me to lay off the Mayor? _You_ might be his accomplice in the corruption of Sanc but I am not going to sit around and –"

Treize held up a hand and Chang quieted, a furious look on his face.

"I merely find it interesting that you seem to blame Dermail and the Council members for every misdeed in Sanc, when it is clear that there are perhaps hundreds of individuals working to destroy this city."

"And as one of them you want me to lay off?" Chang suggested.

"This isn't an interview, and if you _had_ any information on _my_ activities I'm sure you would have acted by now. So you either don't, or you really are a coward."

Chang's ears actually turned red, he was so angry at the insult.

"I simply wanted to pass along a message from several concerned citizens and offer a bit of advice."

"Oh really?" Chang snarled.

"Yes. Don't as an idiotic as your girlfriend and get yourself killed chasing after some juicy story."

Chang's face completely drained of color and the angry expression on his face was replaced with one that suggested complete devastation.

Treize couldn't help but smirk. He was finding it increasingly easy to manipulate those around him – was he really that good or was everyone else simply that _bad_?

He stood up and turned his back on Chang and opened the door.

Trowa stood in the hall and he stepped forward when Treize beckoned him into the room.

"You can release him. He isn't worth anything."

"Yes sir," Trowa said and stepped into the room.

Treize stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He ran his fingers lightly over the skin between Trowa's palm and the hem of his sleeve. Trowa's eyes narrowed and darted towards Chang in confusion.

"Thank you for your assistance, Detective Barton," he said, his voice a carress, before releasing Trowa and walking out of the room.

He was confident that he had given Chang the appropriate motivation to start an investigation into his affairs. He could only hope that Chang was halfway competent and, with the right "evidence" would feel motivated to put an end to both his and Barton's careers.

If Treize had to fall, he was certainly going to take the traitor with him. He needed _something_ to cushion his fall, after all.

* * *

Up Next:

Teamwork saves the day… sort of.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Chapter 12**

* * *

I've decided to do a difficult thing, and that is to let some of my unfinished WIPs go.

Unfortunately, this is one of them.

This isn't about a "why didn't people review this more?"

This is about my unfortunate tendency to start ideas, to plot them out in my head, and then find myself drawn to a new idea.

I still have this problem but I'm working on it, and I'm trying to only work on fics that I can commit to finishing. So, I've gone back and updated every fic that I am officially abandoning and calling it complete as well as adding in a final chapter - this chapter.

Let me share a few of my thoughts for where Without Virtue was headed, but it should really be obvious - I let this plot get very formulaic.

Treize sets things in motion to have Trowa and Zechs scapegoated for a series of murders of Treize's opponents before Treize himself is "murdered" - the actual murders were committed by Duo, at Treize's instigation, and Treize takes himself offstage to watch Acts 3 and 4 unfold.

Zechs and Trowa are forced to go into hiding - Zechs actually, bizarrely, taking shelter in L2 through Hilde's intervention and Trowa finds himself back in L3, back in Barton's harem, and things are not pretty.

Wufei goes the lone wolf approach, trying to investigate all of this, but Treize also has a plan in motion to take care of HIM and Wufei finds himself stumbling onto the trails of all sorts of covered up crimes and he eventually asks Quatre - and by extension Duo - for help.

Eventually Quatre and crew manage to take down the bad guys and Wufei and Treize have a final confrontation, as do Heero and Zechs (Zechs, while in L2 basically helped to instigate and refine the L2 terrorist activities and was planning to lead a revolution from that sector).

In the end, Trowa and Duo were going to die - so it's probably best for anyone still following this that I didn't actually end up writing it.

Zechs and Heero ended up together; Hilde and Wufei ended up together; Relena was elected mayor. Quatre lived alone, without Sylvia, horrified by the things he had done to win peace for the city.

Again, I am sorry that I began this project and didn't finish it and I know it's a drop in the bucket, to offer this small consolation, but I hope that it IS a consolation all the same.


End file.
